


Swallow my Soul

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Series: Kill Tonight [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 52,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, their lives were in parallel, reflections twisted just slightly out of true. Moran was completely certain that Moriarty was dead. John on the other hand, he couldn't even say the word. Could barely think the word unless he was mentally chanting, he's not dead, he's not dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John hadn't wanted to go back with Harry after the funeral but she had insisted, and had revelled a little too much in not being the dysfunctional one of the Watson siblings, at least for a little while. He wanted and hated being back at Baker street. It reminded him of... everything, but he had this wild crazed notion there was a clue. A clue somewhere, something that would explain everything if he was just clever enough to find it.

And Mrs. Hudson was... Well, she clearly wanted him to stay on, but he wasn't really in any state to make a decision either way. He could tidy up while he was in there, though, and look. See if there was something, some hint. Some hint why Sherlock had said those things to him, why he'd thought John might actually accept those lies, why he'd fucking jumped. Clearly it had been Moriarty's doing, all of it. He'd just shredded Sherlock, ruined him, hurt those kids, wrecked Lestrade, it... So much collateral damage, just to get Sherlock to the point where walking off the edge of a building seemed to be the right thing to do.

He sat in his chair, looking at the spot where Sherlock usually lounged. Used to lounge. He wanted answers, but what use would they be? What would it accomplish aside from showing how it was his fault. He'd been warned, twice, and still he hadn't managed to stop his friend, his... best friend, Sherlock, running into danger. To his death.

He'd been tricked by a feint with Mrs. Hudson. And if he hadn't gone to check, he would've been at Sherlock's side, and it wouldn't have happened like that. He wouldn't have *allowed* it.

But he hadn't been there. What if and what if he could've was almost as bad as Harry asking if he was all right, in that tone that implied she knew he wasn't. 

He remembered how Sherlock had deliberately needled him away with a callous cruelty -- that was possibly the only thing that would have made him walk away from him at that moment. He'd told him friends protected friends and he knew Sherlock, he knew him better than anyone because there was no way all that bullshit in that last phone call was the truth. No fucking way. Too many inconsistencies, too much proof to the opposite. Too many small things to pretend that he was really a fraud. 

Too many cases that there was no way he could have set up and he’d been along for the ride. He sighed, and shifted in his chair. No, Sherlock had sent him away, run him off. Sherlock had known what was coming. Hell, maybe he'd even called Moriarty there to speed things along. Sherlock had always been impatient like that.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was pitched quietly. "Are you up to a visitor?"

Why the hell not? Why the hell shouldn't they come in and pity him some more? Poor Doctor Watson. Was he a dupe or an accomplice? Who the hell gave a crap anyway? He'd lost his friend. "Might as well," he said in a low voice, but lacking the capacity to actually do anything like get up.

She lingered at the door for a minute, and offered, "Well, I can send him off if you like, John. It's that nice fellow from your regiment, said he heard the news."

Moran, fucking Moran. He turned his head, feeling suddenly fire and ice inside. "Oh... okay, I'll see him. Mrs. H? Don't worry if it gets... loud. It's what old soldiers do."

"All right. As long as you boys don't get go pushing each other down the stairs. Horseplay can be dangerous." And then he could hear her receding, and quieter steps coming up. Quieter, but slower, bit of a limp or stiffness. He'd learned a lot from Sherlock, knew what a limp sounded like on stairs because Sherlock had mocked him for his leg enough.

His gun was with him but he really didn't give a shit. If Moran wanted to kill him he was welcome. "Seb.” John wanted it to come out as mocking but managed pathetic instead.

The man stood in the doorway for a moment, looming, but he had his hands up slightly, off to the side as if to say 'I'm unarmed', and never mind that John had never wanted to shoot an unarmed man quite so much as he did then. 

"I..." He hesitated, mouth open and then shut tight for a moment. There was a spot of high colour on his left cheek, and it looked like it was sliding back to his ear. "I wanted to give my condolences."

John closed his eyes briefly. "Is that code for ‘I told you so’? Because in that case I offer my condolences to you, too." It had been out of control before he could stop the momentum. He'd been helpless to stop it. He'd thought he could steer Sherlock away, but no, they just ended deeper and deeper in shit.

"I watched it from the building across from the hospital." Of course he did. He had a tiny sniper's nest set up somewhere with a good view. Probably a video camera, too. "If I didn't see him jump, the order was to execute you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade." The order, as if it had come from some faceless machine and not a raving fucking lunatic. "Jim was. I had him on a wire, just one way. I heard it all. Your mate did it for you. I'm not sure it makes it better or worse, but." 

Worse. Definitely worse. Because that was just stupid, stupid, stupid of Sherlock to ever think it was his role to protect him. The numbness settled on him. "Why did you let him? Why didn't you say... stop?" It was a petty childish moment but now he knew it really had been his fault. For not stopping him, for not acting on the warnings, for just being there.

He took another step into the flat, and then another, closing the door behind him quietly. "Jim shot himself before Sherlock jumped. He put the gun in his mouth, because Sherlock was just as smart as he was, and he was *happy*, and he pulled the bloody trigger. I." The red seemed to be spreading on Seb's face. "He said Sherlock could save you all as long as he was still alive, quiet, then just fucking grinned, said 'good luck with that' and ate it. And I couldn't do a fucking thing because it was a god damned one way wire."

John frowned. But there had been no body reported on that roof. He'd seen enough of the fraud suicide stories to know if there was a possibility of murder, as well... But Moran looked like he really had lost the person who balanced him. 

John looked at the man, really looked at him, trying to really observe. He was tall and lean, but not nearly as lean as Sherlock, muddy brown-blond hair barely in regulations. He was biting at his tongue, jaw clenched tight, eyes red. Not just the whites, but the skin around them. Eyebrows were drawn together just a little like physical pain. Seb closed his eyes for a moment, and swallowed. 

"I brought him back home and had our clean up team take care of the body. Better than letting the whole criminal world know he was dead, right? Except I don't think I can keep the whole mess in the air without him. It's… Just a matter of time before I slip and someone kills me now. And he blew his fucking brains out, that was the best part of him, just..." If he clenched his jaw any tighter, he was going to crack a tooth, mouth pulled tight. "Fuck."

"Sit down," John said automatically. "Sit down." Once again their lives were in parallel, reflections twisted just slightly out of true. "Why did you come to me?" he asked eventually.

"I thought you might enjoy a little Schadenfreude." He sat down in the chair opposite John's, which was what any normal person would've done. "Because everyone's calling me 'Boss', and I'm not the boss. The boss splattered himself on the roof of St. Bart's."

That was the difference between them. Moran was certain completely certain that Moriarty was dead. He on the other hand, he couldn't even say the word. Could barely think the word unless he was mentally chanting, _he's not dead, he's not dead._

"Then let it drop, let it fall apart. If he's gone, why are you holding it at all?" He said in a low voice. He should be angry. He should have that fire and ice and want to strike him down for his part in this, for being part of the plan that took Sherlock from him.

"Because what the hell else am I going to do?" He was out of the chair again, pacing stiffly. "At least you have a real job, a real skill you can fall back on."

"You're not stupid. You could do... What you said you were doing before," John replied. "Help yourself to something to drink. I'd get up, but..." He just couldn't force himself to do so.

"Honestly. Who the hell do you think owns Adams' Defence?" He roamed over to the kitchen, though, so despite that the tone was halfway to argumentative, apparently John was going to end up with a drink of some kind. 

"So do that. Go... legit. Or are you thinking he's coming back?" No, that was him, that was always him. Hoping all the time but doubting now it was true. He should never have come back here. There might come a point where the pain of being here would be greater than his need to hold on but right now Sebastian Moran was a distraction.

"If I told you that you should move out of here, sell everything in the flat, and start somewhere else, what would you say?" Not a question John expected. He heard water running.

"I… I don't know," he admitted. "You wouldn't be the first. I didn't have an answer then." Harry had been adamant. He'd just shook his head and walked away.

"Right. I can't do that to everything Jim built, either. It feels like it would be a disservice." A disservice to a complete lunatic, yes, that sounded perfectly sane to John. Then again, he was letting the man make tea or something in his kitchen, unsupervised. "I might have to scale it back a little, though."

"Until someone gets greedy and comes after you?" he asked. It was strange. He'd thought of himself as broken and maybe he was right now, but that was until he met Moran. 

"Until that. Thanks for the reminder." He heard a rough, unsteady sort of laugh. "Jesus. Do you take sugar? Where the hell is the sugar hiding?"

"Sher- It's on the second shelf." He gestured. What had he seen on the roof? Had he seen some clue, something that would explain all of this? His fault, Moran said. Sherlock had jumped to save him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. It was so... ludicrous. So not Sherlock, to be backed into a corner like that. It was the sort of thing Sherlock would say he expected from an idiot doctor with an adrenalin addiction. No. Why would Sherlock allow that?

But what other options had Sherlock had? His only way out had just, apparently, killed himself. 

He heard the cupboard doors open, and then it was quiet again, until he heard the kettle click off. "I suppose you're still being harassed by the tabloids."

"Dupe or accomplice. Most seem to settle on dupe." Somebody somewhere, "leaked" details of Sherlock's confession on the rough top. How he had swindled him from the start. That was the lie right there. That was, it...

"It's better than being behind bars." Fuck, Moran had probably helped paint mercury on those wrappers himself, if he hadn't been involved in the actual snatch and grab. The tea tray ended up set on the side table, and Moran poured himself a cup while he stood there. "I suppose I could've asked if you have any liquor, but you don't seem the sort to have a really good stock. I'll bring some with me next time."

He was having tea with a killer. But he could say that about himself. "Neither should have been necessary. You think I live with him without alcohol?" Lived. He had to remember past tense because the time of miracles was passing him by. "In the cupboard on the left of the cooker."

Seb paced off again, opened the cupboard, shut it again, and was back with the bottle already open. A large slosh of it ended up in both mugs before he screwed the cap back on. It wasn't really fine stuff, but it was *good* scotch, certainly drinkable. "Not as bad off as I'd thought, then." He finally sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I promise there's no rat poison in it. You shouldn't leave that stuff in your fridge, though."

"It's not mine." He didn't feel he could move it. Mrs Hudson would soon, he knew but for a moment in time he needed things as they were, grasping it tightly though it burned as if that would rescue Sherlock from wherever he had gone.

Because a world where Sherlock was dead didn't make sense to him. "Right. I suppose I can't say anything." It did make John briefly wonder about what Moran would consider a hard to remove momento.

"How much of his plan did you know?" he asked accepting the drink. He wanted to blame someone. He wanted to but it was hard because inevitably it came back to him not knowing.

"Enough. The storyteller setup. The prison stunt. I knew Sherlock gave Jim a meeting place, and then we took our positions to see if Sherlock jumped. Setting up the greenscreen for that video was fun, bit special, though." He took a sip of the doctored tea.

"What video?" He had to ask, had to question. Sherlock had determined the place. What did that mean? He'd never do something like that without reason. It was a stabbing pain of hope, just for a moment before the memory of a falling familiar figure blotted it out.

"Jim shot a video. Sherlock didn't tell you?" No, apparently not. Moran was smiling to himself, just a little. "It was the story of sir boast-a-lot. The reality of the department turning on him. We filmed it weeks ago." 

There was the anger and rage surging again. His right hand clenched so hard his nails were digging into his palm of his hand. "Bastard, you… You two. Fuck it, fuck you…" He still couldn't get up but that was because his fucking leg reacted to the emotional stress in a specific way, gone weak and dodgy.

“Go on, hit me." Moran was still sitting there calmly, mug in hand, one elbow leaned on a knee. "I'm not pretending to be innocent in any of this. I'm not, never was."

"You… damn it, Moran!" Moran wanted it, he could see it in his eyes. "You want me to do it... you want me to hit you." Fuck. Fuck it. He wasn’t going to do it.

He blinked once, calm, and closed his eyes for a moment after that, before he took another drink. "Well, it was worth a try."

"If you want it that bad, why me?" John said. "You could get it anywhere."

“I'm going to leave the implications of that alone." He gave another laugh, short, and rubbed at the side of his jaw. "Fuck. It seemed about right. Sherlock spun Jim up, got him so excited... Just made waves and derailed all of the plans we had. If your flatmate hadn't rocketed up in success, Jim'd still be alive."

His fault again. His fault and the blog. He'd been proud of that once, that he'd enabled the world to see what he could see. "No. No..." He shook his head. Guilt was choking.

If he hadn't helped Sherlock move past prick with a boring blog, and into something that was so much more approachable.

"It's not your fault." Moran was watching him again, leaning back in the chair restlessly now. "Well, I suppose it is. I suppose it's all our faults. I never said no to Jim."

No, he hadn't but that was Moran's only failing. "That's a pretty big thing. I couldn't stop him. I never could stop him. I was warned, I... I knew there was something wrong."

"He was protecting you." Moran took another sip, which made the whole discussion seem surreal. "At least there's that. Jim just got over-stimulated and *shot* himself, the selfish fucking bastard. No reason at all."

"He did it to win." He said fighting the emotions back again. "You're sure he did it? Didn't somehow set something up?" If Moriarty had lived then maybe that miracle had happened.

Seb grimaced, looking down at the floor for a moment. "I put my fingers in the hole in his soft palate. There was so, so much blood..." He ran his hand over his mouth, and his fingers were shaking. "Jesus. I don't see how he could've pulled that off."

"I don't know how Sherlock could pull off falling from a roof and hitting the pavement in front of me but…" But there had been Irene, and he knew the truth about her now. He thought he'd had to lie to him but later in a case he'd rescued Sherlock’s phone and found... well, she was alive. But Mycroft said he had seen the body. Seen it, verified it. Couldn't Sherlock have done that?

"Was there an exit wound in the back of the head?" he said his voice quavering a little.

Moran gave him an oddly dirty look. "You know, I didn't check. I was sort of fucked up at the time."

He knew that feeling. He remembered reaching for a pulse and not finding one on cold skin. He remembered blood and matted curly hair. "I... I'm just saying. Is it possible? What have you seen him do before?"

"Everything. Nothing is impossible." He stayed looking at the floor, still rubbing at the edge of his mouth. "Fuck. Fuck. It's possible. He still would've put a hole in his mouth, but since I didn't bury him myself..."

"Maybe this is deluding myself, or us. That's what they say. But he's... he can't be..." And there he was starting to break again. "It's possible. Isn't it? With them? Not with anyone else but with them?"

"I still put my hand in his head. Just putting that out there. You're the doctor." Not that John could imagine putting his hands in a corpse's mouth to be sure they were dead. He did go for pulsepoints first.

He closed his eyes, thinking for a moment. "A blank would still rupture the soft palate. Concussion at the least. Blood from the mouth, a lot... Large blood pool. Eardrums would rupture, blood from the ears. Unconscious. "

Seb exhaled, and started to stand up. "I have to do an inventory. Jesus. I have blanks on hand for scaring the shit out of hostages."

"You do that," John said wearily and felt bad because he had infected Moran with the same affliction he had. Terminal hope, like a slow acting poison. It was a cruel thing to do, because Moran was so rattled he just half ran to the door in his hurry to go follow a lead.

Maybe he would find something. John sure as hell couldn't. Never could.

* * *

His life had sort of gone downhill.

Well, that was actually maybe overstating his ability to handle everything. Seb'd been busy over the last three days, though. He'd dug up Jim's grave, and found one of the men he'd sent off to bury Jim in the grave instead. That was all but a fucking signed sealed hello, so he'd lingered at the gravesite and looked for a hidden camera for a bit before re-burying the poor bastard. Jim didn't want to be found, and he wouldn't be found until he started baiting someone with it. Until then, life and the business carried on. He liquidated one of the flats, and got rid of a warehouse just before it ended up raided by customs, so all in all, he was squeaking by.

Except for the heavy who'd thought he was brilliant enough to run things, and had decided stabbing Seb was a great idea.

He was worried he was losing his edge. He was constantly looking out of the corner of his eye, trying to see if Jim was there laughing at him. It was unsettling and disturbing but at the same time he knew now that Jim was alive. It had to be. And he had been so sure of his death. He had nightmares about the blood, the feeling of the hole in Jim’s mouth, gore slippery under his fingertips. And the pain of the stab wound in his side was starting to make itself felt again.

The idiot was dead, and he'd taken his time with him, and a car battery, just to show them that the psycho was dead but long live the fucking angry psycho, because this was what was going to happen to them if they tried shit like that again.

It took him a little longer than he'd planned to get where he was going, clutching at his side and carefully balancing his ruck's strap across his chest. There was guns and booze in there to be protected. He ended up ringing the bell with his forearm, though, a little unsteady and holding onto the ruck strap like it would keep him upright.

He wasn't sure why he had come here, back to Baker Street. It was something about a tenuous connection and maybe he thought he owed John Watson something for being able to believe in a way that he couldn't.

John answered the door himself for a change, and he looked like shit, but he took one look at him and exhaled narrowing his eyes. "Something wrong, Seb?" he asked in a voice that sounded like he hadn't spoken in the entire time they had been apart.

"Yeah. Do you have any plasters? One of my men stabbed me." And he really needed to do something about that, but Jim had always been so spectacular. A month after hiring Seb, a pallet had slid off a rack and compound fractured Jim's leg. He'd imperiously screamed at them for two hours, bone jutting out like it was nothing.

"Oh for..." John pulled him inside. "Get upstairs, I'll take a look at it." 

He had half forgotten that John was a doctor just for a moment.

"Careful, I brought liquor." The fact that his duffle rattled wasn't good. Getting upstairs was going to be hard, too, but holding onto himself seemed to work nicely. He could hear John gimping his way up the stairs behind him, pressing a hand slightly on the ruck.

"Get this off," he said. "And your top, I'll just get some of my kit."

It was like any professional, they kept the tools of their trade handy out of habit he supposed.

He set the bag down carefully despite its weight, shrugging out of his suit coat and his shirt with some degree of pain. He was going to have to throw them out, or burn them later. There was a hole that went clear through. Now that he was thinking about it, the pain was quite bad, but at the time he'd mostly wanted to beat the man to death with a phone book, and damn the pain. "I think I have news for you."

"It can wait,” John said looking grim returning with a bag and some water. "That's deep. You're lucky it didn't slip between the intercostals. It needs stitching."

"Between the what?" He moved to lean on a table so John could have a better look, than he'd get if Seb stayed standing. "It does hurt like hell. I wasn't going to let them see me weakened, though. I think I put them all in their place."

“Between the ribs, the muscles there." John looked at it with a professional efficiency he remembered. Military doctor, battlefield medicine, it slipped onto him like a long worn glove. He was prodding at the wound gently and expertly, checking his vitals. "Okay, I'm going to get you to lie on the sofa, because I don't fancy trying to stitch you if you are likely to keel over from blood loss or shock. I'll numb the area, then clean it then stitch it okay?"

"Okay. You can skip the numb, I'll survive." He took a hard breath as if to prove it, but it mostly made things hurt more as he moved over to the sofa to stretch out. "I'd actually forgot you were a doctor." And there was no way he was leaving himself to the care of his men. Not an option, didn't trust any of them further than he could roll them down a flight of stairs.

John paused. "For a moment so had I," he muttered. "But I guess being a doctor didn't forget me. Hold still, and tell me if there are any other injuries while I wipe this. "

The water was still very hot as it was swabbed around the wound and some sort of salve that numbed the skin a little was used once it was a bit cleaner. "Appreciate your concern, but there aren't any other injuries. He just caught me off guard." Not that he needed to justify himself to John Watson, but it was still bothering him. "I came over because I dug up Jim's grave."

He felt John's fingers stop for a long moment and then start again. "Was it..."

"One of the disposal team was in it. Not Jim." Seb didn't move, just watched John's bent head, not quite able to see any expression. "He's out there somewhere, still alive."

John looked over at him, meeting his gaze. "You're not kidding? If you're fucking with me, Moran…"

"It's possible that he's in another grave. But it looked interesting to me, and the other guy's gone to ground, or is also dead." He shrugged, and regretted it almost immediately. "Son of a bitch, right, holding still. Fuck."

"Let me do this before I react." He could see John thinking, though. Wondering if this meant what he hoped it met. Did it mean Holmes was alive too?

"Sherlock would never let him win."

"And Jim would never not let him win without making him think he lost." Seb played that back in his head and waved his right hand slightly. "Fuck. It's likely. It's really likely that they're both assholes and they're going to keep cat and mousing each other, but he *left*. I." Jim'd left. For whatever reason, he was off hunting and he'd *left* Seb holding the bag.

"If he's done this to me… us, I'll kill him myself." John growled under his breath. His hands trembled slightly as he threaded suture thread into a needle. "This is going to hurt."

Seb closed his eyes, mostly so he could concentrate on the feeling. "Ever had sex after being tazed unconscious?"

"No. It doesn't sound particularly appealing," John said in a business-like tone. Even with the numbing cream it hurt.

He breathed through it, and focused until it didn't feel that bad at all. Or at least, it wasn't registering as pain any more. He stretched his hand, clenching his fingers a little. "You'd be surprised. Pain isn't really a deterrent."

"Mmm, I think I figured that out about you," John muttered. "I've been called a masochist."

Seb nodded slightly, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. He was a sadist, a masochist, and impulsive on a good day. "I'd knock you for your flatmate, but. Glass houses, throwing stones." And he missed Jim like burning, a hollow spot in his chest that he kept staring at like it was going to fix itself. He’d never expected to really miss Jim, never expected to actually care about the manic little fucker, but he had. If Jim had just wanted to change who he was and start over, he could’ve let Seb in on it. He would’ve done anything Jim asked of him. Anything, and he *had*, never hesitated, never fought back unless it was Jim’s fucking safety at risk.

The needle slid in slowly, and Seb imagined he could feel the thread following after. "I'm going to have to burn out the other flats, and move."

"Burn them out?" John queried glancing at him. "Bit extreme. Probably not the sort of thing you should do with a stab wound in your side."

"Figuratively," he said wryly. "Leave it a shell. What're you going to do?" He was curious, because Watson seemed attached to the place.

"I don't know. I was going to leave but..." But he'd come back with some news that might mean Sherlock might not be dead and now he didn't want to leave. Another stitch was pulled. "If people are trying to kill you they might be waiting back there. There's a spare room here." He could almost hear the unspoken 'for the moment.'

He exhaled slowly again, breathing through it. "Mhm. What'd half the rent come out to?" Impulsive, but following his impulses made his life so much better. It was in denying them that things went to shit.

"Call it £200 a week," John said. He glanced at him again mid stitch. "Interested in more than overnight then?"

"No one would look for me here if I don't want them to." Jim'd be able to find him. Jim'd find it funny as shit, and angry, and that was better than setting up a new under the radar flat somewhere in the pits and living the same miserable empty patterns.

The look in John's eyes clearly said he knew exactly what he was doing and why. "All right. We'll see how it goes. At least we've got something in common."

“Similar delusions?" He caught John's eyes, and lifted his eyebrows at him. "We could both be completely half-cracked, you know. Not that I mind. I keep waiting for Jim to jump out from around a building, even before I dug the grave up."

"I know he can fake a death well enough to convince specialists," John said quietly. "Even though I watched him fall. Why did he make me turn around? What difference would it have made? Why did he tell those stupid, stupid lies? If he was going to do it, he could have told the truth to me, told me why he was doing it. But he said things he knew I would know weren't true. I would have been stupid to believe them."

"He was probably trying to make it easier for you." And Jim had done nothing of the sort. He tilted his head a little, watching John tie a knot in the suture, closing it off. The bleeding was definitely less gushing.

"Easier? How the *fuck* is seeing him die easier?" John snapped out. He tugged a little sharply on the suture. "He wants me to just... forget him? How the hell can he expect that? Could you just forget him?"

He grimaced, and clenched his jaw a little. "Does it look like I'm doing a really good job of forgetting the manic little fucker?"

"That's what I'm saying," John said. "I can't... I can't just turn it off. Can't wipe out memories. Maybe he could, but I can't." He looked angry and furious but his stitching was smooth and even now as if he was in the zone.

So Moran relaxed a little, and mostly watched as he stitched. "So, a truce then, and we wait and see if we're both crazy."

"They make you see a therapist when you were discharged?" John asked moving his arm to a different angle so he could get further around his side.

He held still while the stitching continued. "I never went. I think I did coke for about a month straight, and then Jim found me." Because it was an easy glib explanation for his behaviour, that he was a druggie and not just really fucking angry with the world and everything it hadn’t amounted to for him.

"I went again. I couldn't even say the words. She wanted me to talk about it. I couldn't. She wouldn't understand. If I said I thought he'd faked his own death, she'd have me committed."

He grinned, inhaling through his teeth. "Oh, bloody right she would. They'd cover *that* in the tabloids, too, I think. But you're going to keep doing that to yourself?" Not that he was the poster man for mental health, but he functioned *exceedingly* well, and only handled the addictions he enjoyed having.

"Who am I going to tell? Even I think I'm crazy. I believe, I just... don't know," John replied and he wasn't as at home with his own obsession. "Nearly done."

"Appreciate it. Usually..." He closed his eyes tight for a moment, because, fuck. The last time he'd needed A&E, it'd involved a doctor held at gunpoint for two days. "Well, never mind the usually. Can't trust my men right now."

"Not a good situation to be in. Gotta trust the people at your back," John said and he was back to calm again. Seb was pretty sure that the good doctor was not usually this volatile. He hadn't seen all that Jim had done before he got there to the pool, but he knew the effect he could have and yet the man had been pretty together.

"You do remember I had a gun trained on you? Not that it was personal." He kept his eyes on John, just gauging his reaction.

"You follow orders. I've figured that out." He gave a twist of a smile. "I don't care right now."

That made a strange kind of sense. "Sounds all right to me." Tentative truce it was, then. "Two hundred a week sounds fine. I brought alcohol, if you're interested."

"I'd worry about hereditary traits but... shit, yeah, lets drink," John said as he swabbed the area neat and clean with a cool alcohol wipe and then put on a dressing. He got up stiffly, his leg giving him trouble. "I'll wash my hands and get glasses."

He didn't have to worry about washing his hands on Seb's account but he bit that comment back as he shifted slowly to sit up. The stabbing certainly hadn't helped his back.

"John?" Sounded like the landlady, calling from just outside the door. "I just came back from cards. Is there anything you need?"

"It's okay Mrs H, I've got that army friend of mine over," he said clearing up rapidly so there was no sign of blood. He got the impression that John was used to doing that as he rinsed his hands rapidly, grabbed glasses and went to the door. "Everything okay at cards?"

"Mmmhm, it was nice. It's just... so quiet." She stepped inside, and Seb sat up a little straighter, fishing for his shirt from the floor. "Oh, hello."

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson." He shrugged his button down on, moving stiffly. "John mentioned that uh. Well, since the other room's free for the moment..."

"You're... You want him to take Sherlock's room John?" Mrs Hudson seemed surprised.

"It might be temporary. Sebastian has been in a rough neighbourhood. I'd rather not have to patch him up again, as I have tonight."

"Oh dear!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. It was apparently the perfect explanation, and the idea that he wouldn’t go to casualty but to John seemed perfectly logical to her. Someone was used to working with the lower echelons of society, wasn’t she? "Of course not. If you vouch for him John."

"Retired colonel, Ma'am. I swear I'm on the up and up." He kept buttoning, nice and slow. "My landlord just up and left London."

"Well, I suppose after all the random shooting of guns in the middle of the night, it should be peaceful," Mrs Hudson said. "I'm going on up to bed John. Try and get some sleep dear."

She was worried about him, Seb could see that. "I'll try Mrs Hudson," he said still holding the glasses as he limped over to set them down.

"G'night, ma'am." He reached for a glass, and pulled out a bottle of exquisitely good scotch. "Here. Someone should enjoy this." And if Jim was going to skip town, he was going to drink his best stuff first.

John looked impressed as he studied the bottle. "You sure you want to drink this?" he asked, easing down with a hiss of discomfort.

"Yes. No sense in keeping things for the hell of keeping them." He didn't have much to move except a few suits and some guns, a couple of phones, a laptop and a book or ten. His tiger skin. He'd be moved over in no time at all. It was bizarre, that everything else's was Jim's.

He could just...leave it there. Walk away. Tell the teams to clear out perishables and leave it waiting. The idea had some appeal. The scotch was poured neat; John stared at his glass before taking a gulp. "That's the good stuff."

"It is." He took a slow sip, and closed his eyes. "Like I said. No sense in letting it gather dust." Never mind that he could probably sell Jim's liquor collection and buy the building they were in outright.

It was a revenge of sorts. 

"At least if I'm going to be accused of being an alcoholic I'll be doing it in style," John said.

"Jim replaced the sugar with a bowl of cocaine once. That was a hell of a cup of coffee." He took another sip. "When was the last time you left the flat?"

"That would depend on what day it was," John replied lazily. It was like the scotch was going straight to his head.

He snorted, and took another slow sip, leaning forward carefully to top John's glass off. "Still working?"

"They gave me time off," he said. "I've got to go back soon."

He nodded, slouching back against the sofa back again. He'd seen wives mourn their husbands less intensely than John Watson seemed to be doing with Holmes. Not that Seb was giving himself time to do anything. When he stopped, when he eased back, that was when everything went to shit. If he thought about it for too long, even with the new revelation... "Right. So, we just... carry on. Until we find out they're really dead, or they stop fucking around with us."

"You think he'll let you know? Just turn up?" John asked looking at him.

"Unless he's all fucking obsessed chasing after yours." He desperately wanted a smoke, but had a feeling the doctor was either against smoking, or could blow through a pack all by himself if a man gave him half a chance. Doctors were funny like that, and Seb only had the one pack on him. Seb breathed in another mouthful of liquor instead. "So."

"Yeah, probably. They could chase each other in circles for a fucking eternity," John groused. "If not sure what I would do if he turned up now. I begged him to... never mind. Someone's in that grave. It's not him."

He slouched a little more, posture slowly easing. His back was just fucking killing him and that was maddening. "I could dig it up."

"I don't need to see," he said immediately. "He'll come back. Eventually. God only knows when."

John said it confidently but Seb was pretty sure there was a healthy dose of doubt there. He believed but he didn't know. Seb didn't personally need to know. He wished, and he wanted, and there was a good possibility that it was actually Jim in the grave and he was just hallucinating that it wasn't him. There was simply no telling. "Okay."

"We're soldiers. We know how to suck it up," John said shaking his head. "If you're going to be a criminal mastermind while you're staying here, then don't tell me. I might have an attack of conscience. Mind you, it's not like Lestrade is dropping around anymore."

All of John's friends had been stripped away just as surely as Jim had demolished Sherlock's life. John’s life had been an unthinking casualty in the cross fire. "Right. I'll keep my criminal tendencies to myself. It's not like I'm a social criminal, anyway. Can I smoke in the building, or should I just haunt the front steps for that?" Watson was probably going to drive him mad, but time would tell. He might drive the other man mad first.

"I'll probably hide your cigarettes out of habit, but Mrs Hudson doesn't mind," he said gesturing randomly.

"All right. Even if you do hide them, I won't run out sooner than I used to." Jim had always been a thieving manic prick, just taking whatever Seb was smoking or drinking or eating and finishing it off without a warning.

It hadn't been long, and he missed that.

John sighed. "I guess tomorrow I'll go... get some stuff."

"Things that are not-rat-poison?" Seb took another sip, and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I have food I can bring over. It'll just go to waste. Legs of lamb and crunchie bars, with expensive wine. God, Jim has bizarre tastes. Can't even make fucking toast."

"I can cook. Not sure that crunchies and lamb work together though. Sher...Sherlock could run on caffeine and sugar." John replied. "Sure, bring it over. I'll make something." It seemed a little forced but John seemed to be making an effort at the prospect of him being there.

And it wasn't like it was easy on him. "I can, too. Sort of a defence mechanism. It was Jim who can't... couldn't." He closed his eyes for a moment, and inhaled, sitting upright again. "Fuck. Do you want a top up?"

"How much have we drunk? I think I'm going to regret this in the morning." It was a half protest but he still held his hand out for a refill.

"Five, six fingers worth?" He lifted his eyebrows at John. "Surely, you did worse at the officer's club. When I was a lieutenant, I once had to be carried out by my first sergeant, slung over his shoulder like a rug."

"They say we're the worst, doctors," John said. "But then, I've got family examples haunting me. I kept it down. Just some but not much... blew off steam in other ways."

"How?" He asked it softly, enunciating as he took another sip. This time, Seb just let it settle in his mouth, enjoying the taste. After all, if he was going to trust John Watson to not turn him over to the police, he needed to know a little more about him. And surely vice versa.

"Crazy shit. You know the sort of thing. Dares and taking patrols and sex. When I had time. Otherwise I was doing lifesaving surgical stuff. I was good... a rapid surgeon, under pressure."

"Best kind." He exhaled, measured breaths, why was he measuring his breaths again? He wasn't falling apart at all, no. He was fine. "It's still an addiction. It just won't deteriorate your liver."

"My sister reckons the Watsons have addictive personalities." He started kneading at his leg absently.

"It's likely. Mine seeks thrills. Or quits." He set the glass aside, and mostly just enjoyed the fact that the place wasn't lit up like Christmas or a men's bathroom in a hotel. "My father was part of the diplomatic mission to Iran. When the Shah was overthrown, he promptly volunteered for the mission to Afghanistan. And my family thinks *I'm* the crazy one."

"You went back for five tours," John pointed out. "I read up on you. You're bloody good."

"Lost a little of my edge after the IED strike that killed my driver." Lost, maybe, a little of his sanity, and his back had compressed to hell and back in the blast. He could still wait hours for a shot, but now it just hurt. "It's a beautiful country. So's India."

"Where else have you been?" John asked slurring a little. Seb was pretty sure John hadn't really been eating for the alcohol to affect him quite so quickly.

"Pakistan. Russia. Congo, Liberia, South Africa, Brazil. I used to take my leave, and when everyone else went home to family, I went and hunted big game." Still had the tiger-skin rug, one of the things he owned that'd managed to stay with him year after year after year, against all odds.

"No family then," John commented, still looking at him. "You like hunting a lot."

"I do." He lifted his eyebrows at John. "And I do have a family. My sister's... she still talks to me. Older brother was a young suicide, hung himself in the closet with a necktie before it was in vogue. Rebecca's a government wonk, probably works with the elder Holmes. I have a niece and a nephew, Louise and Thomas. See them every once in a while. Good kids. Not allowed to give them animal teeth or any trophies, but I still manage to be the cool uncle." It didn’t matter what he said, how much or how little. If it all went to shit and he needed to clean up a loose end, he could do it with a twitch of his finger.

"Thought you’d go back and visit family when on leave. Mind you..." John grimaced a little. "Some of those trips weren't such a good idea for me so I get your point. Not tempted to go stay with them then?"

"A little. But. How would I explain myself? I'm cracking up over the brilliant manic little fuck I worked for, who I was sleeping with. He shot himself in the head, and I think he's alive, still. You see, I dug the grave up, and it was another one of our flunkies buried in it." He reached forward, picking up the glass again. "My sister can tell when I'm lying. She's five years older than me, and that's a bit of a horror."

"Yeah, I can see that being a problem," John agreed. "Apparently I'm no good at that myself, so you should be safe here. After living with Sherlock pretty much everything is prosaic."

"It does dull life's general excitement level." The edges of his mouth twitched a little. They'd had plans to burn the world down, and Seb didn't think he could really do it and enjoy it the same way by himself. By himself, all of the things that ruined normal people's days just seemed bland, boring. Even getting stabbed was more of a pissed him the fuck off annoyance than anything.

"I guess living with Moriarty is like using a cobra from a necktie," John commented and he felt a jolt at his use of the present tense. He believed that Jim was alive too.

"Yeah. And then you realise you've got no reason to walk on eggshells and that you rather miss it." Living with Jim was like living with his own personal trauma generator, and he loved it. Loved the unpredictability of it, relished the fact that one day, sure, Jim'd get tired and just kill him and that was all right. "Plain neckties are just boring after that."

"You have an extreme sensitivity to boring." John yawned a little. "Mind you, I'm not that far behind you."

"No, you're not. They're just two sides of the same coin." And maybe he and John were the same. "It's all right if you knock off already. I appreciate you stitching me up. I'll just camp out here for the night, if that's all right." Drink a little more, stretch out on the sofa, and dream of old hunts.

"Yeah, I guess...yeah, I'll go to bed," John replied. He pushed up in a wobbly way and nodded to him. "Night. We'll get stuff sorted tomorrow."

"Yeah." Calmer, a little more logical. He didn't think the light of day would change anything. Except he might’ve been down a little less blood than when he'd gotten there. And that'd be fine.

* * *

John wasn't sure he should actually be back at work, but he had been. It was only clinic stuff, not actual surgery which he was still too self-aware to not do just yet. Blood was too fresh a sense memory. Being busy had helped, and somehow in moving Seb in and putting on an effort for a guest he had held it together and... not left.

Oh, he'd been adamant he couldn't stay there. Determined to leave and not go back after the funeral. But, somehow in agreeing to have Seb stay - and what the hell had he been thinking then? He hadn't been, that was the point - he had let the ingrained instincts of being a good host carry him along.

That was exactly what was going on, and now he had an active sniper living with him, in Sherlock's room. There was a tiger-skin rug on the wall, carefully pinned in place as if it should've been framed. That was about the only drastic change, though. He hadn't moved any of the clutter, and if anything had brought a small box of books over to add to it. A laptop, and three cell phones, a couple of suitcases of clothes that looked too expensive to actually be worn, but Seb did.

It was weird how he had started calling him Seb. Habit possibly, as they were taught to find the first name and use it to hold soldiers to life. Seb was there, and they had somehow got along and it was... dangerous and stupid and he took some small pleasure in the thought that maybe Sherlock might be having the equivalent of kittens somewhere watching him. 

John was ashamed to say that might have been a major part of the consideration of letting Seb stay. 

What he was surprised about, as he watched the limo pull up just up the street from him, was that it had taken this long for Mycroft to try one of his now regular abductions. Well, he could at least make it a comradely sort of abduction. No messing around with his banking information, though he wondered where he was going to end up this time. At least he knew better than to fall for the pretty bait assistant.

The door opened and John stood there for a moment waiting for the pretty bait assistant to lean out. He had to wonder, was she the one who was Moran's sister?

"Doctor Watson... if you would..?"

"You know he could just phone," John replied nevertheless giving in. He still seethed in anger at Mycroft. He had made a huge error, one too big for him to correct in time and he hadn't quite forgiven him for that. He'd given Moriarty everything he needed to know to take Sherlock apart, he'd given it to him because he'd had Moriarty in detention, for information that, what? John hadn't heard of it since.

The assistant this time was older, which John decided was a pleasant surprise. She had a sharp profile, pretty blue eyes, a rather classically gorgeous face. He kept flicking his eyes over to her face, her eyes. "It's not as interesting if we do that."

"Well heaven forbid I should make you bored," he said and got into the car. "One day I'll get into the wrong car."

She lifted her eyebrows at him, and leaned back into her seat. Her seatbelt wasn't done up, which was a little interesting to notice. "Maybe you already have."

"Starting to feel that way," John agreed with a wry smile. What did he care? Who the hell would want him aside from Mycroft right now?

She pulled her cell phone out, and John stretched to not sigh because wasn't that how it always went? "Tell Sebastian to stop being such a bastard and to call every once in a while. Father's concerned he's dead again."

“You're his sister... he did mention you." John replied. "You know, he's completely screwed up right now."

"He's been completely off the radar for three years. And then suddenly, he shows up on your watch. So I'm not quite sure what you'd know about how screwed up my brother is." She flicked her eyes up to him, phone still held loosely in her fingers. 

"So are you abducting me for Mycroft or for yourself?" John asked pleasantly enough. He wasn't entirely sure which of them was the most screwed up. At least Seb was honest about his brokenness.

Seb certainly owned all of himself, in an admirable way. "Mycroft, but I rather appreciated the opportunity this granted me." Her answering smile was pleasant, perfectly normal. "I know Sebastian feigns that he's some.... mindless thug, but I know he's still in there. He can come home any time."

"You think I think he's a mindless thug?" John asked surprised. "You do know who he's been with?" They had to know.

"No?" Oh, holy crap. He was almost excited that he knew something Mycroft didn't. God, maybe it had nothing to do with Sebastian at all, why Mycroft was bringing him in. "And you do?"

He massaged his forehead. "Come on, you know everything else about my life and you've missed that? I..." He didn't know if he should say. What he should say.

She swallowed, and there was something like suspicion behind her eyes. "Tell him to call me. And you should call your sister as well."

"I'll tell him. Harry is... being Harry," he said. "I think she likes the thought that I'm not the stable one right now."

"Well, congratulations, you're probably more stable than your flat-mate." She went back to looking down at her phone. Flick, flick, and then the limo was coming to a rest.

"The club or some random building?" he asked with a hint of a sigh. Somewhere without too much walking his leg was still bad and all the worse for him knowing it was psychosomatic.

"The club." The door opened, and she got out with him, which was almost a pleasant change. Almost. "Remember, no talking. I'll take you to him."

"Fine." He followed her, limping despite his attempts not to show weakness. He wanted to be angry at Mycroft but he half knew it was his fault still. Mycroft had put him in the game to protect Sherlock and he couldn't.

He still wished he could've. 

She waited patiently, pulling open and holding doors, oddly mindful in a way that reminded him of Seb. The similarities were obvious, but he wasn't going to bring the man up again. If he'd managed to stay under the radar for so long, why change things now?

"Ah, John. Please, sit down. Thank you, Rebecca."

He sat awkwardly. "Mycroft," he said tersely. "I wondered how long it would be."

Mycroft's mouth was a tight, unhappy line. "Yes, well. I had hoped you might... I'm sorry this happened." He hadn't said a word at the small funeral, hadn't even looked John in the eyes.

"You're sorry? You're..." He had to swallow back bitter anger welling up. "You know what, I don't know why I expected anything different."

"I realise now that I played into that madman's hands. He anticipated every step I was going to take before I took it. I should never have told him what I told him." No, no, he wasn't prepared for an apology, for Mycroft *explaining* himself.

The Holmes' did not do that. Did not ever do that. It was keep up or live in ignorance. "You did." John said. "But I knew, and I still didn't stop him. So many warnings and I still… I still couldn't."

"None of us could." He lowered his head, and turned a little, pacing slowly. "I want to know if there's anything I can do, John. You... brought Sherlock a great deal of joy. You were a good friend."

"Bring him back?" It was a flippant comment and he tossed it out there because he needed to see what Mycroft believed. He found Mycroft easier to read sometimes than Sherlock's mercurial moods.

"I wish I could." He turned a little, hands loose and limp at his sides. "He was my baby brother. But I've never been able to protect him from himself. The stories are already falling apart. The, the claims about the children, the kidnappings, everything that was laid at his feet, it's all being proven untrue. But it doesn't matter."

He believed his brother was dead and John felt a little shitty about that. "Well, that should have been obvious if people sat and thought it through. Greg Lestrade is being slow about it. You know he wasn't a fake. You know all of what he said at the end was… They were lies."

"Of course. He was likely afraid that you were going to die if he wasn't discredited thoroughly." That Mrs. Hudson was going to die. That Lestrade as going to die. Not that Mycroft was going to die, no, he was safe and sound holed up where-ever he was. Not as touchable. Maybe not as important. John wasn't sure. "I still can't believe he did it."

"Are you…" He hesitated. "Are you sure he did?" He remembered seeing the fall, the body...blood, cold skin. John swallowed against the tightening of his throat.

"Completely." He looked at John with shuttered eyes. "And Moriarty as well. His body is in cold storage. There were concerns that he might gain some sort of cult status. Sherlock... is still in the cemetery."

Shit. Did that mean Seb was wrong? He felt the choking depression settling down thickly again. Maybe he had been fooling himself. Or maybe Sherlock had fooled Mycroft once and had done so again. "Why have you called me here?" he asked swallowing again. "Not just for this."

“Because I know you might hold out hope. And there isn't any hope to hold, I'm afraid. After all of that smoke and mirrors, I can see a man wondering if anything is real. I know I had to assure myself a few times what was real and what wasn't." His face was drawn, and he exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry."

"You don't get it right every time," he snapped back immediately and half regretted it. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." It knocked the certainty back though, that feeling that had buoyed him up

Fuck. And Moriarty was in cold storage somewhere. Because his hope had been that if Moriarty had lived, then Sherlock had clearly pulled off something. "No, I'm sure you did." Mycroft's mouth was a tight line. "But I know my brother jumped to his death."

He couldn't accept that. He just couldn't. Mycroft had been fooled before, still was fooled. Irene Adler, Sherlock's obsession.

"So this is to make sure I'm not deluding myself."

There was a faint tilt of Mycroft's head. "Yes. Since I seem unable to do anything else for you. I see you have a new flatmate."

"Yes. He needed somewhere to stay." How much did Mycroft know? Maybe he didn't pass information on to his subordinates.

Maybe he was giving Rebecca plausible deniability. "I suppose I don't need to tell you that he's been spotted in a number of countries over the past few years, at times coincidental to high value targets being found dead. Single gunshot wound to the head. I'm sure with his suspected employer dead, he does actually need a place to stay. Nothing solid, though. Just coincidences."

So Mycroft knew he was employed by Moriarty but didn't seem to know about the more personal fucked up connection he had, or that Seb was probably puppet-ing the criminal empire. "Yeah I know. And I know that he was also in my regiment, and one of us. I did learn a few things from your brother and I'm apparently a risk taker." For some reason he was reluctant to pass that information on. Mycroft had all the government resources going and Sherlock had worked out more despite that.

Less resources, more quick application. 

"Be it on your own head, then. I'm sure my brother would have been amused." Would have, because Mycroft was solidly sure Sherlock was gone. "If something comes up, I know how to contact you."

"I could give you my mobile number," he said pointedly. "Because contacting doesn't usually mean a semi-abductive experience."

He wasn't sure how to deal with this. Mycroft seemed sure, very sure and the doubt was growing again.

The doubt of a hope that was tenuous to begin with, but he'd held onto it hard. Mycroft was looking at him as if he were speaking another language, eyelids flickering briefly. "I already have it."

"Then consider using it." But no doubt it was hack-able or something. Like somewhere couldn't be bugged as easily as using technology. He got up awkwardly. "I hope you are... doing okay."

It was hard to tell what expression was sliding over Mycroft's face. "No, not really. I let him down, and I brought a madman's wrath down on him. And it isn't something that can simply be fixed."

"No, it can't," he muttered. "It's... what happens to Moriarty's web of consulting?" he asked as he waited to be escorted away.

"Still seems to be functioning without him. A few pieces fell off, or were 'jettisoned', such as it is. There was a human trafficking gang, Polish. They were found stacked up like cordwood in an empty warehouse. We suspect he had a partner, or perhaps two or three, who've resumed activity in his wake. Still." Mycroft inclined his head. "As it threatens queen and country, it will be dealt with."

That was interesting. "I'll keep an eye on Moran," he said in response as Seb's sister returned.

Mycroft's eyes' flicked up to her, and then back to John, his oddly serene smile returning. John didn’t expect for Mycroft to move, to claps his hand briefly as a thank you or a goodbye, with both hands, and then he was being signalled for the door. "Yes, you do that. Thank you for coming. Rebecca."

"We'll make sure you get where you need to go."

He nodded and turned to leave. He wasn't ready to act as comforter to Mycroft. The man had tried to use him to clear up his mess, and he'd failed. He should have told him about Moran and Moriarty but then Mycroft would be in his life all the time. "Thank you."

And there was the other Moran, standing there and looking faintly tense as she gestured for him to follow her. Back out through the winding, silent hallways, the muffled carpets. She stopped, waiting, and then keeping pace with him as he struggled to keep up with his leg aching. 

"Does your brother have your number?" he asked quietly. "I'll get him to call you. Or something." Go with him if he had to. It might just disentangle him from the lifestyle.

Not that he knew what the man might end up doing if he ever did disentangle from the lifestyle. "He has my number. Or I could stop by sometime." She looked like she was waffling, playing it through in her head. "It's been too long."

"Have you tried to contact him?" he said. "Recently?"

"Haven't heard from him in over a year." She lifted her eyebrows at him as they headed to the car. "We had lunch. He looked healthy, put together. Wouldn't talk about himself at all. And then he disappears again, and shows up as your flatmate."

"We met in a bar, he was in my regiment," he shrugged. "There's a bond there, and well, I guess he looked me up."

"He was on his way to pinning on stars," she said as she slid into the car. The brief break in conversation was a bit of a relief, because that was, actually, a little hard to imagine. Seb as a general. Generally a little unhinged, perhaps. "He *led* part of your regiment. And then he just..." She snapped her fingers, while John fumbled with his seatbelt. "None of us could believe when he came home like that. I don't think they knew what to do with him."

"He was fighting for his men. It’s difficult to describe. The pressure..." John exhaled. "I understood that."

She sighed, looking out the window. John understood it all too well, that feeling of responsibility, of frustration, of the futility of what they were doing out there most days. "Are you doing well, after what happened?"

He shrugged. "What does it look like?" he asked.

Her eyes darted to the cane, and all she answered was, "Weren't you shot in the shoulder?"

"Yes," he said sharply. "Yeah, it's... something else." All in his mind apparently. He sighed a little. "Look, why don't you come up for a coffee? And if he's there..."

If Seb was there, well. It sort of set itself up perfectly, which was why she'd probably volunteered for the duty in the first place, and never mind that Seb's comings and goings were quiet and at odd hours. She probably had a desk job, analyst job, writer, analyst manager, he wasn't sure. Whatever it was, it was worth blowing off for a day to get a chance to see her brother. He wasn't as good at that as Sherlock had ever been, but he kept trying. "Thank you."

John nodded and then fell silent for the rest of the short journey. That's all he could do and maybe it would even help a little. Either that or Seb might punch him in the face. Considering the way he was thinking, it could’ve been a welcome distraction.

* * *

He'd almost been surprised that John had gone back to his day-job, but the quiet was... The quiet was all right. He'd gone out that morning, tidied up a few things with the business, come back, made tea, spent thirty minutes taking care of other things through his cell phone, and then had decided to just see what the view looked like through the two windows. There was a convenient table that was easy to clear off, shove nearer to the window, and then he just propped himself up on it with the spotting scope, taking his time. Getting a feel for the rhythm of the street and beyond.

It was almost a form of meditation in a way. It calmed him, focused his attention to a point and that meant all the big questions of life just faded in the background. He wasn't sure how long time had gone past when he became aware of the door opening downstairs. John must be back... and later than normal. He didn't bother moving; just closed his eyes for a moment to rest. He was starting to get focus lock, and that meant it was time for an eye rest, just enough to keep the world from narrowing. Seb put his eye back to the spotting scope, and listened to John limp up the stairs. He'd brought a lady back with him, from the hard click of heels.

He supposed it was a matter of time really. Not that John wasn't obvious in his interest in both the sexes. The apartment door opened and he heard John say, "I'll just make the coffee then. You have sugar or milk?"

"Sugar, no milk, thank you." There was the click of heels closer behind him, then, "Sebastian, what on earth are you doing?"

He held his breath for a moment, closed his eyes again, and carefully laid the scope on the table. His elbows ached, and his lower back was certainly saying hello, but. He swung his legs off of the table, and stood up, cracking his back. It was just as well he'd stayed dressed for business from the morning, because his sister looked sharp and together. Bugger Watson -- was that why he was late getting back?

"Prone unsupported observation."

"I can see that." Rebecca sounded her normal self. "You haven't contacted any of us. Not for nearly a year."

"I'll make you one too," John said blandly from the kitchen area.

"Appreciate that." He gave John a glance, then kept his focus on her. She looked like her normal self, too. "I had a busy year. And it looks like you found me." 

"Moving in with Doctor Watson was practically an invitation. We were worried, everyone was worried," she said walking closer to him. "We don't know how you are, what you've been doing. You could have been dead Sebastian."

"I wasn't." Everyone was worried -- what, her, and her and her, with maybe the kids thrown in for good measure? It wasn't. It wasn't what he needed. "I, uh. Just needed a new place to stay." And what had Watson told her?

"So I said he could stay here," John piped up.

"Yes, but why him, why here?" Rebecca said. "You could have come to us, not to a fellow member of the regiment you barely knew."

"Because of what happened," John said. "I told you that. We come back... Well."

It was a good excuse and had the advantage of being correct.

It just wouldn't stand up under his sister's intense scrutiny. He leaned, half sitting on the edge of the table. "I just did. I didn't want to come home, and have Father drop by with some desk job he pulled strings on, and the usual insinuations. I can't really handle that now."

"Fine, but you could have called. You could still call. I barely knew if you were still alive," she said in a more understanding tone. Rebecca had experienced enough of their father’s machinations to know what he was talking about.

He still didn't know what to say to that, though, whether she understood or not. Phone calls were hard enough, face to face meetings were always layered in so many other things and trying to work out what she knew and what he could say and what he could say and still give her plausible deniability if something slipped up, because he'd been so openly criminal for so long that he was shit at watching his tongue even if he was still a person on the radar with a normal place in life. "Okay. I'll call more. I don't really know what else to say. It's been a rough year."

"You're my brother Seb, I miss you. Your niece and nephew do as well," she said even as John brought over the coffees. He was limping badly, so he took it John’s day hadn’t gone well.

"Here we go." 

Seb murmured 'thanks' when he took the mug, and watched John limp over to his chair. ‘Here we go’ was right. "I, uhm." Seb took a sip of the coffee first, stalling viciously, obviously. "I missed you all, too. It was just better if I didn't come around."

"Well at least I know where you are right now. If you don't want to come around then we can have lunch. Are you eating properly?" She sounded like their mother had, more than anything.

He exhaled, mouth pulling up in a smile that he could already feel faltering. The worst of it was that he did better worrying about someone else than he did about himself. "I'm fine." He offered it softly, trying to find the words that might dislodge her or explain himself. Except there really weren't any. Telling her 'I manage crime for a living, and my partner, my boss, my job, he's either dead or he's skipped town.'

Hell. Maybe he just needed to say it out loud, and see what she did. At least Watson would get a show out of it, admission free of charge except for the coffee. "You don't look fine," she said in a slightly hesitant voice. "Seb, you don't have to... you know, be a mercenary. It's alright, I know that much, I know that's what you've been doing. But you don't have to. You're smart, and you can get a job in a more legitimate form of business."

He heard Watson nearly choking. Brilliant. More careful, tempered, maybe, Seb asked, "Just. What do you know about what I've been doing. I don't want to." He gestured vaguely with the mug. "Or maybe I do want to. I don't know. I miss him."

"Miss who?" Rebecca asked looking confused.

"Uh, Seb worked with someone for a long time who was killed on the job," Watson stepped in. "That's why he needed somewhere to stay. He's been looking for work in legitimate companies too...what was that gunsmiths place again?"

Seb inhaled, shaking his head a little. "Adams' Defence. It's part time, but it's enough." And she still hadn't told him what she knew, or how. Or where from. He curved his hands around the mug, trying to focus. It would've been easier somehow if she'd caught him bloody handed at a crime scene, because then, *then* the lies came easy and fast, tripping off of his tongue and building in undeniable momentum.

"Good." She looked a little uncomfortable. "Is there anything I can do for you...I mean, if you need money or something..." Rebecca trailed off a bit.

"I need to know what you know, and how." He gave her an open enough expression, the best he could manage. "Or I'm going to say something and then you're not going to have plausible deniability and I'll disappear into a holding cell in some basement until the elder Holmes gets bored." And he might have already said more than he should have, if the way John was turning purple was any hint.

"Fine," Rebecca said, defiance in her voice. "We know you've been a mercenary or sniper for hire. That you have been associated with a variety of high profile assassinations, but there have been no definitive traces. I know you've been working on the wrong side of the legal line Seb.”

He bit his tongue gently before taking another sip of coffee. "Okay. Okay. That's all I needed to know. Like John said, my partner's gone. It's..." Seb returned to cradling the cup. "Nothing I ever wanted you associated with."

"This is the perfect time to get away from that," she said. "Please Seb, you don't need to live on the edge."

"I really do. I, uh..." He lifted his eyebrows at her, watching her posture, her eyes. "He might not be dead."

"Your partner?" She leaned forward. "Seb, you need to think about yourself okay?"

"Three years, Rebecca." She was close enough to touch, but he was coiled tight like a spring. "Three years. I am thinking about myself."

She looked like she was reaching forward to touch him and John said hastily, "Uh, Rebecca, don't. It's a reflex thing."

Maybe he was that wound up. Really wound up. He felt it and he might snap. He watched her flinch back at the warning, while he set his cup down. "No, it's okay. It's okay." He closed the space, halfway hugged her in a deliberate motion. "I'm not, you're my sister."

That it seemed was the key. She lost the brittle edge to her and with a sound that could have been the start of a choked back sob she turned to hug him properly. It was strange, a different set of sense memories, of family and times before. Life that had seemed bleached out and paled by Jim's brilliance. Still seemed bizarre and faded, but he closed his eyes and just hugged her, letting it all filter in. "I'm sorry." And he still missed Jim, except just thinking about him brought up sense memories of watching his head blow out, of blood under his fingers and a limp formerly manic body in his arms. Knotted up with the feeling of his sister. "I'm sorry."

"I've missed you, I've been so worried…" She half mumbled into his shoulder and Rebecca just didn't cry. Not even when she was dumped by her first love. No, she had plotted revenge and calmly seen it through. This was… This was unexpected.

"You shouldn't worry. I've been fine, safe." He was good at what he did, and the stab wound was healing up really impressively nicely. "And we were good at what we did. We were so good..."

"Morans always are," she replied and pulled back a little wiping her eyes. "I'm... I'm going to have to get back to work."

"Okay. I'll call." He needed time, needed to think, and letting her go was harder than he thought it might be. "I will." 

"Good," she said straightening up. "Thank you for the coffee Doctor Watson."

"Any time." He sounded a little startled at being addressed.

He stayed leaning on the table, watching Rebecca as she made a fast rush for the door, trying to maintain her composure. He knew that, watched her open the door and shut it behind her with nary a wave. That was perfectly ironic, that she'd shattered his composure and taken off. Seb waited a few beats, and then moved to lock the door. He was half tempted to jam a chair up under it.

John was looking a bit wary. "I... they knew you were here. It was this or have them stalk the house."

He still had his tongue pressed up against his teeth, playing through his words before he spoke. "Which I'm sure is still the case. Meeting didn't go well, then?"

"No." John's expression went blank. "No, not really. Mycroft is... sure of things we're not sure of."

He wandered back to the table, reaching for his coffee cup. "How sure?" He didn't want to know. He did and didn't want to know.

"He says I'm deluding myself. And that you would be too," John exhaled. "I, I don't know. He'd lie to me if he thought it would benefit his cause but I don't think he was. I think he believes completely that Sherlock is dead, and Moriarty."

"Why does he think Jim's dead? I had him out of there in no time flat, no witnesses." That was strange, and wrong, and oddly coincidental with his sister showing up. "He shouldn't have known anything."

"He said..." John stood, getting closer to him. "He said he had Jim's body."

Oh god. He closed his eyes, finishing off the coffee. "Where? Where did he say he had him?" His stomach went upside down for a moment, and then righted itself, because he knew what he had to do.

"In cold storage, but that's all," John admitted. He looked worried.

"And he told you that. And he knows I'm here." He pressed his tongue up against his top left molar, taking a deep breath. "So they either have him in cold storage in a morgue. Or they have him in cold storage like they did before. And they'll be expecting me to show up."

"He didn't seem to know of your direct connection with him," John said. "But it seems like a trap."

He exhaled, and crunched his eyes closed. "Fuck. So much for a quiet night in, eh? I stuck pasta in the oven."

"Look, we can't just run off without thinking this through," John said. He was hastily scribbling on a piece of paper and held it up. It said in a bad scrawl. ~Would your sister be in on it and if so could she have just planted a bug?~

It was a slightly shocking to think that John could think that way.

"Fuck." Fuck! He picked up her mug, starting to check it, starting to shrug out of his jacket, because she'd hugged him long enough to slide something up under his collar and seriously, what the fucking fucking hell if Watson was right. "How did this turn into 'we'? I'm the crazy one here."

"Oh, I'm a good actor," Watson said. "I've got you fooled if you think I'm less fucked up than you."

Nothing on the cup, nothing on the coat, so he pitched a look at John and pointed at *him*, mouthing 'what about you?' "Speaking of, are you still seeing your therapist?"

"I... Yes. For all the good it does. I can't talk about it, not even now." John was pulling off his coat, looking at the collar and then examining the cuffs. He turned them inside out there was a small gleam of metal like a fine needle. Anger surged across his face.

"You'll have to give me her number. I probably should start sometime." He stepped forward to take that needle of metal in hand, careful, and set it on the table. "Fuck. My sister followed you home, and Jim's in cold storage." Because he'd already said too much, and now he was sure there was a bug. He had it in hand.

John mimed a push and tipping coffee on it. "Look, I know I've pissed you off Seb but..."

"Yeah, I'm angry. I'm damn angry." And mid word, he dropped it into his sister's coffee cup. "Well."

"Fucking Mycroft Holmes..." John looked livid. "So much for his concern, for doing all he could do for me."

"I suspect he thinks he's doing all he could do for you. By having me taken care of. You really don't need a criminal living with you." He swirled the mug around for good measure. "Still, if he really does have Jim."

"I don't know. It could have been a ruse," he said. "Look, seriously, if it's a trap for you, do you really want to spring it?"

"Can I afford to not spring it? If the iceman has Jim..." Alive, dead, in custody. He wasn't going to have Jim held again. The last time, it hadn't really been planned and he wasn't, couldn't let that go on again. "I'll go in unarmed. I'll plead crazy. Breaking and entering at worse."

"But then he'll have connecting proof between you and Moriarty," he said. "I could..." He hesitated.

It was a damn good thing he hesitated. "I need to see for myself. I need to at least check. They won't know who I am. What I did." That he was it now, they wouldn't know. He'd need to change suits, something that didn't have the faint hints of a lifetime spent in prone supported and unsupported waiting for a target. "If it were Sherlock, would you trust someone else to go in your place?"

"No." John admitted. "No. I guess not. I'm not sure if I would believe it unless I saw it. I did see it and I still don't."

"And so did I, and I still don't." He moved to pace out of the living space, leaving his door open. "So. I'll leave a few weeks of rent money. If you could burn the tiger last, I'd appreciate it. Really rather fond of it."

"Seb...come on, can't you just give it some time? Throw him off the trail?" John pushed again and hell, it looked like it really was bothering him.

"They'll have time to move him. They might already have. I'll never know. I have to know." He started to take his shirt off, stopping to check that his boots were on tight and comfortable, and clean enough to pass. "And I've always been an obsessive fuck."

"Just... try not to get killed okay?" John said. "I've just got used to you as a flatmate."

He turned to the door to call back to John, and was a little surprised to see that John was standing just outside the doorstep, watching him as he dug into a drawer to pull out another shirt. Daylight robbery was the way to do it, so he stopped and found two of Jim’s collar stays at the bottom of the drawer, too, part of the game. Just because he didn’t enjoy his roots didn’t mean that he could avoid them infinitely, particularly when knowing the upper classes’ nuances could save his skin. "Like I said, there's pasta in the oven. My general goal in life is to not get killed." 

"I'm beginning to regret mentioning it," John said. "I didn't think this through."

"I appreciate that fact." He took his time working the collar stays in, and then shrugged into the shirt. He'd put on a fresh suit coat, and grab an ID from the usual pile under his socks. "I needed to know this."

"Maybe." John shifted. "You've been doing okay here. Better than I thought and I've just put it right back." He looked genuinely uncomfortable about it but that wasn't going to stop him. Nothing could. He needed to know about Jim, and if he was alive or dead.

It was strange that John seemed concerned about him. "If your leg's hurting, you can sit down while I get ready." The bed was neatly made, hysterically so, with tight corners that would've passed any inspections. If nothing, Seb worked to stay squared away. He fished into another drawer for one of Jim's indecently expensive neckties. "I'm curious on how you're defining 'okay'."

"More settled. Less hair trigger than when you turned up," John replied. "I mean, more grounded I guess. That's what my sister would say at least."

He slid the tie around his neck, muscle memory doing the work for him. "Yeah. Jim and I exacerbated each other." Seb closed his eyes for a moment, reaching for the suit coat that was on a hanger. "Still need to see what's going on, trap or no."

"Even knowing it's a trap?" John asked. Especially because it was a trap, that should go without saying.

But the look on John's face seemed to ask for it. "Because it's a trap, I think. Whatever they're expecting of me. It isn't going to be what they get. They probably think I'm some... PTSD riddled mad dog, and I'm going to come in armed and without a plan."

"And are you?" John asked looking at him intently. "Because, you know this isn't looking like a lot of planning from here."

"Memorized the layout from the last time. If Iceman hadn't just let him go, we were ready to break in to get him out." Check the cells, check the morgue, and then back out, that was all he had to do. "And the codes. And swipe badges." He was still shrugging into his coat while he held out the little clip on badge with reel.

"And you don't think he will have changed any of them by now?" John pointed out. "He said cold storage. That might mean somewhere different."

"The undefined detention holding cells or the morgue." He clipped the badge on, halfway working his jaw to get it to relax. The worst thing was, he was completely used to working without backup, without a team, just because Jim needed it done right and fast and also yesterday. "I appreciate your concern. And I mean that honestly."

"I don't want to have to go to another funeral," John said with a glance at the badge. "And I'll be just as responsible. I can live without that." He did sit on the bed though with a wince.

"I don't think they'd kill me." He tilted his head a little, watching John's posture. It was telling, in a way. "Anyway. If I'm not back by tomorrow, you know who to ask after."

"Jesus.." John muttered under his breath. "If I ask he'll lie, I know it. You know it."

"Yeah." He exhaled, buttoning up his suit-coat. "Still. Should be back soon. Don't stay up." 

John just shook his head. "Try not to die," he said shortly and limped away to his own room. 

Seb watched him limp off, and then he followed, heading for the door.

He just took to a pace with it, falling into familiar patterns. Drive his car, get out two blocks away, stop and get a coffee. Look impatient while waiting for it, and then walk to the building sipping it, half hurried. Fumble the swipe card, get in, pull the door handle open with a napkin from the coffee he'd spilled into his fingers. He continued down the hallway, sucking coffee off of his hand and still giving off the air of inconvenience and lateness as he headed for the lift.

It was still a trap, and they were probably waiting until he was in place to spring it, and that was all right.

He didn't have anything else to spend his hope on, and it was the only currency he had. It was remarkably easy to get in through the first layers of security and that had to be deliberate. Either that or unforgivably sloppy.

Either was possible, so he kept moving, playing the part he'd given himself as he got off the elevator to the morgue level, and started forward. Might as well face the worst possibility first.

A little careful reconnaissance showed him there was someone in the morgue, doing an autopsy by the look of it. He supposed it would have been too obvious for there to be no one in the trap room. Frankly he just wanted to know, then they could catch him. That was all. They could do what they wanted but he had to know.

He ignored the man, because that was right for the character, and started to check the nametags on the drawers, looking for anything that might mean Jim.

"Excuse me, what are you doing in here?" the coroner said, pulling down his mask. "You can't just walk in here, you know. I'll call security!"

"I was sent in to pull the body we recovered in connection with the St. Bart's scene." He kept checking names. Just his luck he'd walk in and be on the side of the morgue that had the wrong letters. What if they'd filed him as a John Doe?

"Sent by whom?" the coroner replied. "Look, you're not authorised to see classified bodies. I have to have a signed authorization."

Did that mean there was one? Or more?

He exhaled, looking and feeling pained because no, he didn't have a signed authorization. "Geeze. Fine. What locker’s he in, so I can go get my paperwork straight?"

"You know we don't store any cadaver more than seven days here," the coroner said suspiciously. "I've never seen you down here before. Who sent you here?"

"Mycroft." He cocked an eyebrow at the man, taking a sip of his coffee. He was thirty seconds from pulling the man's arm behind his back and making him open the right fucking drawer.

"Mr Holmes? But he should know those bodies aren't here. We sent them to the Freezer as per regs," the coroner said sounding confused.

"I wasn't listening when he left the message." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Where's the bloody freezer?"

"In the sub-basement in the Web block. Seriously, did you not pay attention in orientation?" he said. "I'm telling you, you will be up on a disciplinary if you don't listen to every word that Mr Holmes says."

"Well, thanks for the warning. Guess I'll get my paperwork straight first." He turned away, looking pained and half reprimanded and embarrassed. It was easy to move away, heading for the doors, the elevators. Maybe he hadn't hit the trap yet because it was set up in another bloody location.

Either that or they were using the morgue as a trigger for a team to move in. He should back off, hole up, vanish until he could see the shape of the trap, but he couldn't. He just couldn't, even though he knew it. He headed for the other lift, mapping through in his head the best way to get to the Web block. He just had to know. Crazy, intensively, needed to know, couldn't think past it. Couldn’t do anything but press forward, still playing his part for the cameras on the hall. They had to know, though, so the question was did they know he knew it was a trap? Did they think he was still confident in pulling one over on them?

Web turned out to be a nickname for Webster building and he had to pause. Entering it through the normal doors was looking to be very difficult. There was a very stringent security set up almost like an airlock of some description. Did he bluff it, or did he attempt to find another route?

Fuck it, he was going to bluff it. If the cameras watched him casing the place out now, he'd draw too much suspicion, but someone would let him piggyback in. They always did.

It was a question of falling in with an appropriately large group and engaging with them, so it seemed like he belonged. He lurked a little until he found a group of three women obviously laughing about something as they headed towards the checkpoint.

He plastered on an easy grin that he wasn't really feeling, and fell in with them, badge ready in a careless way balanced with the coffee.

They didn't seem to notice, only when he was half in the middle of them showing his ID, and then laughing at the gossip going on as if that was normal. He got a strange look from the curly haired brunette as they headed inside the Web, and he peeled off heading for a gift from the infiltrating gods - a stairwell that was marked as closed for building works.

Also probably a trap, he decided as he walked into it like he belonged there, and just took a moment to orient himself before starting quickly down the steps, down down down. He just needed to see, to find out. Damn the traps, he needed to see what, if anything, they'd done with Jim. Maybe they didn't have him at all, and it was just empty bait for him.

It was going to drive him mad. He saw a sign saying Cryogenic storage and that had to be promising. He slipped out on that level and really, too easy. Too damn easy. But if he could just see before they sprung the trap…

He opened a door, pushed his way inside.

It was cold enough that he could believe that he was in the freezer, and he stepped forward. All was quiet and empty, late enough in the day that the people who might've been busily poking around in the morning were long gone. Now to just find Jim, checking the drawers. All alphabetical again, what a good little organized government they had. J, K, L, M, Mason, Morgan, Moriarty. It wasn't time to react yet, just to wrap a handkerchief around his hand before he touched the handle. It was probably alarmed.

He pulled open the drawer and just like that, he discovered how to stop time. 

It was him. It was… it was every line every pore, blemish and freckle. He knew Jim like no other. Not even a professional would know the placement of every tiny thing. It hit him like a bullet, shattered across his chest. 

He exhaled unevenly, fingers moving of their own accord to touch Jim’s cheek, his mouth. They'd shaved off some of his hair, probably the better to determine cause of death. His fingers wandered, sliding back to slip inside the exit wound. Wax wouldn't have worked, it felt different cold. 

"Goddammit." 

It was there. Cold and oddly dried by however they had treated his body and it was real. It was real and the fragile hope John had given him shrivelled and died.

And behind him someone cleared their throat.

"Oh, fuck off." His voice broke at the edge, not a sound he expected to make, but he'd been clinging to hope. He'd been holding onto it so hard that he hadn’t noticed quite how much he was relying on it. And there was Jim, icy and dead under his fingers. He ran his hand down the inside of Jim's arm, feeling a scar he'd got from attacking a plate glass window. Very familiar, right where his touch expected it to be, twining up with the memory of surprised pain Jim’d given him as if it was Seb’s fault that the glass had fucking bit him. No shit, glass hurt, you over-brilliant little prick, what did you expect? 

"He is very dead Colonel Moran," came the cultured tones of Mycroft Holmes behind him. He was dimly aware of operatives moving in around him. "I express my condolences. I admit, I did not know until recently quite how involved you were."

He just didn't care about the operatives. What was there to fight back about, when Jim really was dead and gone? His hands lingered, though, because it was more final than the last time, when rage and panic and anger had overwhelmed him and made Jim’s death seem unreal, something easy to reject, something to be cleaned up. This was solid under his hands, Jim without his animating forces. Mark on his collarbone, tiny pale rejection of colour from one of his games when he was younger, before he’d realised the best way to do things was from behind twelve layers of security. “Fuck." He wasn’t going to cry.

"I know it is a shock to you. John Watson did exactly as expected," Mycroft said as he moved around into view. "But I knew you would never give up unless you verified it yourself. This is James Moriarty in the flesh. He did kill himself on the roof of the hospital, because I believe it was his moment of fulfilment. Someone had played him and it was a relief, a terrible relief to suddenly be sure he was in fact human and real."

"It had nothing to do with that." He swallowed, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. Jesus, jesus fuck, it was Jim, Jim was dead and gone, not just gone skipped town, but dead, dead, dead, and it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t what he expected, wasn’t what he’d wanted to find out even though he knew it was unrealistic to expect otherwise with Jim, because that was just how he was. Changeable. Seb leaned in, not caring that there were witnesses, pressing his forehead against Jim.

There was silence for a long moment. "I think you need to have some time to accept this before we talk properly," he said carefully. Firm hands were laid on his shoulders pulling him back.

He didn't fight it, just went when the pull turned to a harder tug. "At least fucking bury him. At least..." His throat hurt, and his eyes felt hot, and he wasn't. Was not going to cry.

“There a still a few tests we have to run," Mycroft replied. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but that won't be possible just yet." Someone was fastening cuffs on his wrists and he barely cared, because what was there to fight for? Mycroft Holmes was being almost wary around him.

He licked his bottom lip, and kept his eyes on the drawer. "What tests?" Seb asked it almost out of reflex, because they were desecrating Jim's body for the sake of fucking tests?

"Like you, we scarcely believe it to be true. Some of the testing takes a long time to return. Until then James Moriarty will be staying here." He really was the Iceman, he seemed smooth and unflappable.

He closed his eyes, watching him lock Jim back up in a drawer. So much energy, so much excitement and brilliance, gone. Husk in a cold freezer, and that wasn't Jim any more. "You don't have anything on me."

"I have enough," Mycroft replied. "You have done a splendid job of cutting ties. Who will come for you now? Take him to one of the holding cells."

No one. It wasn't cutting ties, but he wasn’t going to say it, it was maintaining fear in an easy way. Running the empire the right way. No one would've come for Jim, either, except Seb. He closed his eyes, and went when they pulled at him. Nothing fucking mattered.

Nothing mattered at all.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anyway... Oh, I broke into your laptop to get here. I needed your plans. You have a severe powerpoint addiction, you know that?" 
> 
> "How the hell else do you think a man makes it to OF-5?" Seb snorted, sliding out of the sweatpants and pulling trousers back on. "Gannt charts? Sure, powerpoint. Quad charts nested in quads? An excellent planning tool. Whatever you're smoking, sir, I'd certainly like a huff. Don't tell me the medical community was immune that.”

John had started to worry almost immediately rather than by the following morning. By the time 24 hours had gone past he knew something had gone badly wrong. He couldn't explain it, but he just couldn't bear to lose someone else, not now, not ever. He tried finding out, he tried using some of Sherlock's network. He got the same answer each time, each day. Moran had entered the government buildings and had not come out again.

Which told John that he was still there. That it had been a trap and Moran had willingly walked into it because he thought they had Moriarty. And they probably did, they probably had his corpse. Because John had told him as much. Moran had walked into a trap, because John had told him it was there and that he'd like the bait.

It was driving him crazy. He'd been next to fucking useless for Sherlock, despite the multiple warnings from all directions. Fuck it. He wasn't sleeping, he kept going into flashbacks and that was just ridiculous. But it was like leaving a man behind enemy lines. It resonated with him. He could possibly do something for Moran and that meant he had to or risk completely falling apart.

He just wasn't sure how effective he'd be. It wasn't as if he had a box of swipe cards, or... or he did, actually. He had everything he needed to find Moran if he was in the complex. It just wasn't legal. If Sherlock... Well, Sherlock would have waltzed in, somehow carrying it off, reading everyone and his way to his destination. He considered confronting Mycroft at the club but what would that do? Nothing. He did have some military skills. He could do reconnaissance, he could adopt a tactical plan. It took time.

It all took time, and then what, afterwards? He'd leave a path a mile wide, and where would he go? His sister? They'd look for him there. Bugger, they were already performing surveillance on him as just part of day to day life.

The only advantage was that they didn't think he was up to much, so that was sloppy. However, after a great deal of thought, if he could get Seb out and back to the flat, he would be as safe there as anywhere. Mycroft wouldn't have a reason to come after him. If he had, then he wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to use him to set Moran up.

It was probably a horrible plan, because then Seb would be on the run from the law. But was it better to be on the run from the law, or just detained for an undetermined period of time? All because he had to see a body because otherwise he wouldn’t believe it. There was no believing it, John knew, and maybe he was as unhinged as Seb was. Still, it was something to focus on between clinic areas, taking Seb’s small parcels of things apart to see if there was anything useful in there. He had three spare passports, with only one in his actual name, and a spare for Richard Brook with Moriarty looking gleeful and wild-haired for a passport photo. Seb’d completely expected to probably have to get ‘Brook’ out of the country after the whole fiasco, but it clearly hadn’t turned out the way Moran had been expecting. And it was best to not consider that at all, because all he could see was Sherlock standing on the cement edge of the building, one arm reaching out before he dropped.

Memories of Sherlock were all paralysing when it came to trying to plan his way forward, and no way to really honour the man’s memory.

It took longer than is should have done to remember about Sherlock's purloined identity badge that was for Mycroft. It had eventually been refused when they went on their famous Baskerville visit but after a delay and Mycroft owned these buildings. It had to work in his own building. Then having remembered it, he had to find it and that meant invading Sherlock's room.

He didn't think that would be a big deal. It was just a room, and Sherlock had spent just as much time sleeping on the couch or not sleeping at all, but it turned out to be very nearly the thing that broke him entirely. It was chaos in there, with a tiny bit of space that Seb had added to, and the too-neat bed. Sherlock didn’t mind messy because he could always remember exactly where he had put something down so it didn't matter where it was. Moving to the back and sides of the room was like stepping into Sherlock’s head again, a whirling chaos of eclectic exciting things and in there the scent of him lingered.

"John, are you all right up there?" Mrs. Hudson, calling up the stairs as she came up the stairs. She liked having boarders, he knew, because it gave her a little company and a little life in a building that could otherwise be quiet. So lonely, which had never seemed to be a real emotion until after Sherlock was gone, left him hollowed out and wondering how to go on.

She had become worried about him again, he knew that but he still hadn't found the security pass, though he knew it would be around somewhere. He stepped out of the room. "I'm fine Mrs H," he called back. It was almost a ritual now, soothing to them both.   
"All right, dear. Have you heard from your friend?" 'Your friend', and he supposed she kept asking because Moran had been quite polite to her. And had been paying a good chunk of the rent.

"Not yet, Mrs H," he said. "But I think I know where he might be. He's had a difficult time, he's probably taking time out."

She was lingering in the doorway, watching him with careful, concerned eyes. "Oh. That's not *good*. I mean, he left his computer and all of his clothes, and even that gun here! And people just don't do that."

"He lost his best friend. I thought I could look out for him but..." John exhaled. "I don't want to let anyone else down, Mrs Hudson."

"I know, dear. But you can't live people's lives for them." She turned towards the door. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"I'm good, Mrs H," he said but was conscious of the fact he didn’t look good. "I think I have a lead on where he is."

She sighed, and started down the stairs. "I'll still make you a cup of tea," she called up. Right, well, he could go back to Sherlock's room and keep looking because it always took Mrs. Hudson at least 15 minutes to make a teapot.

“Okay, thanks," he called out and went back to searching. It was strange but Seb had barely disturbed anything in the room. It was like he was ready to leave in a moment. Memories kept tripping John up when he picked up items and clothes almost reverentially.

Seb had only touched two drawers in a cabinet that Sherlock had never used because clothes went on easy to grab hangers or the floor. Or a box. Or where-ever. And he'd left it all, because maybe Seb really was ready to leave in a moment's notice. 

And there was the ID, under the side chair.

Fantastic. Okay, time to have the quickest shower on earth so he appeared to be making an effort when Mrs Hudson came up. Five minutes, he could be in, out and dressed again. The rest of the apartment was tidy because that's what he did when he was anxious and could do nothing else.

When he was in the shower he couldn't stop thinking about what he would do to get in. He would have to try and be stealthy if he was going to get a gun in. How was he going to open a cell door? Maybe Seb had gadgets for that...he was going to have to take a look. Did he try a distraction? Probably not sensible.

Best to look as perfectly bland as possible, and blend in. Daylight robbery, Seb called it, as if it were an important thing to keep in mind. As far as military operations, John tended to think of it as reasonably ill advised.

Slip in as unseen as possible, head for the detention centre and... Well, there was the first problem, he needed to locate the detention centre. Seb had said something about being ready to go get Jim from prison. It made sense he might have information on where Mycroft kept his prisoner. 

Out of the shower, a towel off and into a clean pair of jeans and another jumper. He felt a little better. 

Maybe it would be on Seb's laptop, which was a little invasive, but he suspected it might not be too hard to get into. Suspected. Then again, for all he knew, he'd pick it up and it'd catch fire.

What the hell, he could try. That was exactly what he was doing by the time Mrs Hudson came in with the cup of tea. If not for regular cups of tea he would probably get no food at all. "Thanks Mrs. Hudson." He was looking at the password screen trying to think what he could try to get into the computer.

She stopped and set the tray down, peering surreptitiously at what he was doing. "I bet he uses those beastly passwords you use in the military. Sherlock used to go on about how silly your passwords were." That was, that was horrifying, actually, but Sherlock did use his laptop on a regular basis, regardless of how many times he'd changed it with number and letter combinations.

"That's a good idea." It did get ingrained into you. The military was all about ingraining things into the mind so it became second nature. If Sherlock could deduce his, then he could deduce Seb's.

Hopefully. He just needed to think of words and... numbers, and maybe letters he liked best. He peered at the oil marks on the keys, hoping for a hint, but it didn't seem to help. All of the keys were shiney. The space bar seemed to have a wear mark on the left side and not the right. A couple of other keys were completely devoid of letters. The 5 and the 8 were a little more worn than the rest of the letters. That was a start.

He tried to think of something that would have a long enough character string. Name was too obvious. A title maybe, a phrase or a fictional name. Something meaningful between them. He paused and tried *R1chard_Br00k

Password denied. The hint that popped up was useful as a brick to the head. *The usual, moron. Well, that was useful for someone who was trying to crack into a machine. Mrs. Hudson lifted her eyebrows at him as she settled down to drink her own cup. "Didn't he write a book?" Hunting! Right, hunting. So, guns, maybe. Tiger? Tiger something?

He tried to remember what Seb had talked about. He had been animated on the subject of hunting, becoming poetical as he quoted Blake, so John hesitated as he turned pieces of those conversations over in his head. Yes, he did like Blake, even if it was a bit ham handed on the topic. "You are a genius Mrs Hudson, you really are." He typed in *F3arful_symm3try, and then *Fe4rful_symmetry. 

That worked. He hadn't expected it to work, but it started to log in, bland logo making way to a blander desktop, clean of clutter. "Oh, you got in. Wonderful! I'll leave you to it, then. It isn't as if it'll do him any good if he's drunk or dead in a ditch." Nothing like Mrs. Hudson drinking tea and approving of a little snooping to make his afternoon brighter. "Should I leave you to it? Yes, I think so. I'll leave the pot." 

"Thanks," he said absently, frowning as he started to poke around. "Let’s see what you've got in here, Seb." Details, details, things he really didn't need to see. And suddenly he was glad Mrs Hudson was out of the room before he opened those pictures.   
There was being comfortable in one's own computer, and then there was having porn right at the base of one’s documents folder, unfiltered, just. Easy access, right there. Pictures of Moriarty, comfortable looking. Surprisingly muscled in places, and not in others, lounging naked on a leather sofa as if it were all for show. Whatever had led to pictures being taken probably had been for show. There were stills and clips of the security footage from the London Tower robbery. Jim Moriarty, lounging in the crown jewels, blissfully uncaring of the security forces streaming in. There were pictures of Seb he also didn't need to see, and it was almost a relief when manic-seeming sorts of pictures that had to have been taken by Moriarty transitioned to pictures of warehouses. Clearly casing pictures, so good, they were there, he'd find something of the building.

He became absorbed in the hunt, the hours slipping away as he opened files, and found details of plans Seb had made in a surprisingly meticulous way. You didn't get to be a top notch black ops sniper by not being methodical. All his work was done for him, with one snag. The plans were designed for a crack team, not one person.

There were movement plans, bloody power point charts with infiltration plans laid over aerial surveillance and detailed shots. Pictures of doors, interior plans pictures put together from photos employees had posted online and a leaked conference room map or two. It was really brilliant, even if John thought that 84 slides were possibly a bit much even for an infiltration plan. Still. It would certain give him everything he needed to get to Mycroft's inner sanctum, paired with Sherlock's nicked ID.   
He contented himself with the thought that if he pulled this off, he was going to cut Seb off from an unhealthy obsession with power point. He needed to study this, and prepare because he really didn't want to screw anything else up. But after several days of hopelessness, he had a direction and a goal. That was more than he had had since Sherlock....

Yeah, just. Since Sherlock.

* * *

The whole point of SERE training was to teach a man to resist. Resist and return a whole man, because those things did happen. People snatched up from convoys, separated, caught on the wrong foot in a fire fight, and while no one wanted it to happen to them, the training was… well, it was a mixed bag. Some people took it seriously, and others faced it with a grim sort of humour. He’d known at the time that he rather liked a bit of roughness, known it comfortably when he took the training young and to prepare for a stint in special forces, before the task of being a steadily climbing officer had re-routed his career. 

Mycroft knew his military record, his official history, which he supposed was why the man was trying really admirably hard to break him. Newspaper people would raise their eyebrows hard. Problem was, there wasn’t much left to break. A man needed something left to really play that game, and Jim was a cold corpse in a freezer some floors below. The Empire would amble on for a bit without him, and then the fighting would start. Half of London would probably burn if some of those groups they’d had poised at each-other got going, but it wasn’t his concern. He was fairly sure he was going to die down there.

If he didn’t die of boredom first, shackled to a chair with his hands behind him, across an interrogation table from the Iceman. Again. He’d been going through familiar songs, half-humming them, half singing them in his cell when they’d hauled him up for another round. It kept him sharp, kept him from having much space for fretting because he really was an obsessive sort of fuck, and there was nothing like forgetting a lyric to piss him off inside of his mind. Everything was bright and vivid and sad, right, he was fucking kidding himself but that was fine. That was how a man coped, even if it was by playing through every bright moment in his life because Christ, he’d had a lot of them. He’d had a really great, exciting life. No regrets, no shame if they just finally decided to quietly tap his skull with a gun. They’d already threatened that, to no end.

That had been par for the course, a part of the dance of interrogation. Some tough guys to threaten and manhandle him so that when he was faced with reason he should want to leap on it. "I've been thinking," Mycroft said sitting forward and here it came, the pitch that he'd been waiting for. "Along the lines of better the devil you know. I know how Moriarty's organization works... and so do you."

And he wanted to avoid a firestorm as it collapsed. All very logical. The whole process was all very logical.

"Mmm." He slouched back against his hands, even though it hurt his wrists to do so, because it was better than sitting stock upright in the chair and feigning an alertness he didn't feel. "Then you also know I'm not stupid." Just devoted, just obsessive, just someone who enjoyed the kill shot a tiny bit too much, if there was such a thing as enjoying it too much. Jim'd given him everything he needed in life, which was different than everything he wanted.

Huh, and he had a tooth loose from the taste of blood in his mouth. That was a shame, because he was a bit old to start losing teeth to heavies. "So was this really all necessary, or were you just trying to show a fellow a good time?"

"Well that depends on how amenable you are willing to be," Mycroft said calmly, as if he was conducting a board meeting. "I have to consider the nation’s security after all and you are a killer for hire, a dangerous criminal, for all you hid in the shadows of your... partner." He seemed unperturbed at the insinuations. "Tell me Sebastian," he said steeple-ing his fingers. "How have you analysed this situation, considering you have now sated your curiosity that James Moriarty is truly dead -- a fact that our analysis now completely confirm right down to the mitochondrial DNA level?"

"I didn't need to wait for DNA. My denial doesn't go that far." He lifted his chin slightly, watching the Elder Holmes. "Just skip to the point. You want to be the new spider in the middle of Jim's web, for god and country or whatever you tell yourself, and it's easier if the staff stays the same. Because someone obviously kept things going when Jim was here. Probably in this same chair. And when he got bored and just wanted to see things burn."

"Indeed. Organised crime is much better if it is actually organised." Mycroft gave a thin smile. "Moriarty was dangerous because of that unpredictability. His focus was...variable to say the least. Stability even in crime is preferable. I have learned to accept a certain level of criminal activity and if I do not avail myself of the experienced candidate I would have to create one. In effect Colonel Moran, I am giving you a job interview. "

A job interview that had required a good week, maybe longer, of softening him up, and one loose tooth. He exhaled, watching Mycroft's thin smile and calm eyes. "Given that it's my job already, I think this goes the other way. If you could've taken over the network without me, you would've already done so, and found an easier way." He pressed his tongue against his teeth, biting lightly with his mouth closed tight for a moment while he thought. "Because you checked, didn't you? And that's why I've been waiting here for so long. So, what can you offer me, if I agree?" 

Freedom of movement, he supposed, not spending the rest of his life behind bars. That would've been an honest offer he could take.

There was a moment where Mycroft became very still and his eyes were hard and uncompromising and he could see immediately why they called him the Iceman. His response was sub-artic in its crisp coldness. "Do not believe for a moment Sebastian that I could not do without you. I could, but it is a matter of convenience. I could have taken your organisation out at the knees even with Moriarty in control, but I judged the risk factor not to be worth the fallout. Rather than deal with someone who feels they are indispensable, I *will* risk chaos for long term security. I would destroy the web and rebuild it if necessary."

It was an intensity he usually saw in Jim's eyes and when he knew not to argue against the craziness of whatever he was going to suggest. People obviously did not cross Mycroft - save his brother.

"Now. Tell me why I should keep you on?"

So he rolled with it, because that was what he did. Mycroft could say what he liked, and like a smart Chief of Staff, Seb nodded, not breaking eye contact with the man. "Because I can keep your actions in this untraceable. And if this all goes south and the media gets a hold of it somehow, years later, I provide an excellent scape-goat with a long record full of searing 'oh, if only we'd paid attention' moments that'll keep people from looking past me." That'd always been the plan if Jim thought he was ever *really* at risk, not play risk, not risk he wanted. "Could even lead to some much needed reform in the Forces if you wanted to push it. I'm *very* good at what we do. And I know we've taken covert contracts from your people before. That mess in the DCR that we tidied up. 'Can you fix it for me, Jim? Fix what, fix a failed state? No, but we can fix all evidence that you backed the wrong so~orts.' "

"Mmm. And what are your expectations? What do you want for your cooperation as a... sub-contractor?" It was a real offer and it made sense. He would crowd out all bar the extremists and they would be the ones that Mycroft would want to tackle. He would know who had bought what, who was making noises and he seemed intrigued at the idea of things being cleaned up. 

He licked his bottom lip, casting his eyes around the room. What did he want? What did he *want*? He wanted fucking *Jim* back, except Jim’d put the gun in his own mouth and there wasn’t anyone to blame for that but Jim. Even as much as thinking about it made his chest hurt. “Freedom of movement. Freedom to continue handling the organization internally as I see fit.” Criminals dealing with other criminals expected a certain give and take and teeth and pressure, and fuck, the pressure they laid on them was immense some days, with Jim howling fury about skinning people, and that one dicey pair of veg tanned shoes he had made that’d looked really awful. “My pay takes care of itself from that. I’d really just change who I give a monthly report to. Do you prefer excel, hand puppets made out of stray dogs, or power point?”

"I will instruct you on the format nearer the time," Mycroft said narrowing his eyes a little. "I will occasionally want to infiltrate operatives into organisations. If this is the case, they will enter and be subject to your judgement, but I would prefer you not to kill them. We can arrange for you to double cross them into the hands of the law if they do not make the grade." His phone beeped and he glanced at it, and looked momentarily a little surprised. "Well, I underestimated his resourcefulness. Interesting."

Infiltrators -- that was probably the first step towards the whole thing collapsing. He'd have to be double-crossing a lot of them over to the law just to keep the thing viable. He cocked an eyebrow at the man while he shifted in the chair again, stretching his fingers and holding onto the bars in the seatback as he sat upright. His back was killing him, and the cold they used judiciously to numb the senses was making it worse. "Am I allowed to ask *whose* resourcefulness?"

"It would seem that you have provided a focus for the spiralling-into-depression tendencies of your new roommate." Mycroft smiled a little. "Is it a military thing? This urge to infiltrate and leave no man behind in some form of suicidal last rush?"

"I thought that was part of the standard indoctrination process," he offered blandly, watching the man's expressions. Watson was infiltrating the building? Huh. It struck him as a little strange, and stranger still that Mycroft seemed almost fucking bloody chirpy about it.

"He'll be with us shortly," Mycroft said. "I really must have a word, about our security. He did get a remarkably long way before he was detected. Are you sleeping with him?"

“No.” He gave Mycroft a dubious expression, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Is there something in my file that I should know about? Does it reference some unbelievable level of horniness?” 

"More a deduction regarding the emotional connection that would lead a doctor to attempt a black ops style raid on a secure government building." He said. "It is an intriguing relationship, you have to admit."

"He patched me up after one of my former men challenged me. We were both lonely, and used to dealing with crazy." He lifted his eyebrow at Mycroft. "And you used him to lure me here in the first place."

"Yes. It was a hope that I could redirect the guilt he has been wallowing in regarding my brother," Mycroft said giving a slight sigh. "It was inevitable I suppose, given his history."

Doctor with a tendency to feeling guilt, psychosomatic injuries. Seb closed his eyes for a moment, blinking where he couldn't rub at them. "Right. So have we come to an agreement, or....?"

"I believe we have. There will be some details that we have to work out but we can do that in more civilized society," Mycroft said standing up. "Let's meet your would-be rescuer."

"I'd love to, but I *am* cuffed to the chair." He stood up shakily, and his wrists caught on the bar, stopping him from standing all the way up. "Bit awkward."

Mycroft gestured and the cuffs were released at the very point he heard a commotion outside.

* * *

Adrenalin was pumping and for the thousandth time he was wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. Getting in had not been easy. There were a lot of patrolling guards even at this time of night, and he was not in the best shape he'd ever been in. Hell, who was he kidding, he was a wreck physically, but then no one suspect a limping man with a cane -- when he had to brave a check point -- to be any sort of infiltrator.

But this, this was madness. And he just kept going, half imagining that time he and Sherlock had just forced their way through Baskerville on bravado and energy, only to have Sherlock interrogate the woman at the end about Bluebell the pet rabbit. It'd been fucking brilliant and scary and he didn't think this ending would be half as light and easy unless Mycroft was willing to look the other way. 

He was probably going to be pissed that John was using his swipe card.

John had a gun because he wasn't sure how he was going to get Seb out, or what shape he would be in. He had to duck out of sight on occasion having memorised the sections not explicitly covered by cameras. He managed to slip into the detention centre using a precarious route Moran had mapped, climbing outside the building along a ledge to an external vent. It scared the shit out of him. He nearly dropped his utility knife when he unscrewed the cover and nearly fell from the roof trying to get in.

John was damn lucky it hadn't been a star-headed screw or something on the cover. Still, he felt rough, tired, by the time he got to the last hallway -- narrow, lined with alternating cells and interrogation rooms. Probably so prisoners located side by side couldn't start some kind of knocking communication. Or because it was just convenient. All he had to do was look in each room, and hope no one important looked back at him.

There were surprisingly few occupied cells and the interrogation cells seemed to have a red or green indicator outside to show if an interrogation was in process. By the time he had checked the cells he was about to fly off the handle from stress. He wasn't there, so he had to be in one of the interrogation cells. 

And the obvious one was the one with a red light on and a man posted outside the door. Of course. He eyed the guard outside the room from his concealed corner and half palmed the tranquilizer he had liberated from his last shift at the hospital. All he had to do was bluff it long enough to get close for an injection. Easy.

Just stay calm and act like he belonged there. He started towards the only room with a red light indicator on the wall, and kept one eye on the guard. He was probably going to be horribly outnumbered, but. Had to try, and if Seb was at all functioning he'd probably triple their odds of escaping. 

And then the door swung open.

His hand was on his gun without the intervention of caution, and he was ready-- only it was Seb who was brought out first. Fuck it, Mycroft was there as well. Well there was nothing for it but to take the bluff all the way. He was about to demand they stop when Mycroft said with supreme disinterest, "Ah, John, there you are. Good."

"Hullo." Seb seemed almost bland, rubbing at his wrists, standing there in sweats and a dirty t-shirt. He looked sort of like hell, heavily bruised and grimy, but alive. "Anything else right now, or do we get to use the front door?"

John stood there looking from one to the other. What the fuck? Seriously what the hell was going on? He was wound up to breaking point and then this...?

"Well, we do need to return your things, don't we, before I release you into the custody of a responsible citizen here," Mycroft said looking at John. "I would like a word Dr. Watson. Do put away the gun, it is completely unnecessary."

He caught himself off guard, lowering his gun unsteadily. "There's a joke there, only I'm not cracking it right now." Seb grinned, and the expression seemed a little faked to John as he stepped closer and stood beside John. 

It did seem a little ridiculous to be standing there, action hero stance while everyone was looking at him as if he was crazy. He lowered his gun. "You're letting him go?" he asked sceptically.

"Yes." Mycroft's expression was reserved.

"With a list of caveats as long as my arm." Seb lifted an eyebrow at John, squinting at the bright fluorescent lights.

"Colonel Moran, if you'll follow the guards to out-processing. John..." He gestured for John to stay. And what was John going to do, leave? "A moment, please."

He really, really wanted to punch someone but he forced himself to clench the feeling in. "I'm not exactly going anywhere," he said. "Or is it my turn to have a taste of your hospitality?"

He held his hand out, long idle looking fingers like Sherlock's had. "My ID, John. And we'll never mention this again."

John was reluctant because he remembered how Sherlock's fingers closed around it. He caught himself holding it, staring at it and then very slowly handed it over. "You used me, Mycroft. You fucking set me up to send a friend into a trap."

The look on Mycroft’s face was impenetrable as he took his ID back, pocketing it deftly. "He's a criminal, John. Never forget that. He's killed, for reasons other than the line of duty." And so, if John thought about it, had he. He'd killed to save Sherlock.

"He's more than that," John answered. "You think you've got him summed up just like that." He shook his head. Seb wasn't evil, he was broken. Moriarty had picked him up much in the same way that Sherlock had done to him. He'd been sucked into his orbit, and it was like there was no escaping that. The inevitability of being *there* was a force of nature as effortless at obeying the law of gravity. Seb had been like that with Moriarty, he was like that, still like that even with the idea of Sherlock. "If you even think about killing him..."

Mycroft shook his head slightly. "Sebastian Moran is far more useful to the crown alive than dead. Be careful with yourself, John." He tapped him on the shoulder. "I'll come by the flat in a few days. There are some items of discussion that still require clarification."

"So that's it?" John could hear himself getting louder and angrier. "That's it, you're just letting him go, letting me take him out of here? You've had him a week!"

"I play the long game, John. Colonel Moran now has a new boss." Was he letting John in on something? Why was he telling him that?

"Just once it would be nice if one of you Holmes brothers didn't talk in riddles. What's it got to do with me?" he shot back and then hesitated. Mycroft had been happy to hand off minder duties on his brother. "I'm... the babysitter?"

"If you like, yes." He gave John something of a smile as they walked, heading back down the hallway in full and comfortable view of the cameras. "You seem to have already volunteered yourself. As long as you don't mind him tracking blood in occasionally, I think what you were doing before was quite sufficient." 

"Jesus..." How the hell did these things happen? "Fine. It's not like I can do anything to stop you."

The agreeing hum didn't help John at all, and he still felt horrible, wound up with nowhere to go. Mycroft stopped to swipe his way out of a doorway. "The government does occasionally have need of people of his calibre."

They didn't need John, however, and John was too aware of that. "I see. Chess pieces again. Who are you playing against now?"

"All takers." He looked out of the side of his eye at John. "I'm rather impressed that you got this far. Please don't do that again."

"Don't imprison friends of mine illegally and I'll consider it," he answered. "Did you hurt him?" He was looking for a reason, any reason to lash out.

"Nothing I wouldn't suppose he'd call foreplay in better circumstances. Isolation, mostly. A good shower, and he'll be right as rain." He held the door for John, leading to another upward sloping hallway. He could see Seb standing at the end of the hallway, a guard behind him, while he signed something on a clipboard. He was definitely favouring one leg.

John gritted his teeth. "I am so close to hitting you right now, Mycroft, I suggest you don't mess me around again." If he threw a punch, one wouldn’t be enough.

He was pretty sure that for all of his brainpower, he could beat Mycroft’s ass in a fight, with little effort. At least, until the hordes of guards the man had fell on John like well-armed wolves. “I can see why Sherlock enjoyed your company.” That was pitched a little softer, and Mycroft’s placid expression shifted faintly towards misery. Just, just for a second, just long enough to make John want to punch him again. 

The person on the other side of the counter was passing Seb a sealed plastic bag, and it looked like an inventory, with the person reading off a list that John could hear as they got closer. “…boots, size 11, one pair, two lighters, one ballpoint pen, one laser pointer, one driver’s license, five cigarettes in a cardboard package, napkin from Monmouth coffee. Please sign this form which states you received your personal belongings back.”

Seb looked like he was signing the new form, and muttering, “Christ, you catalogued everything, didn’t you? Did you check the pocket lint for ammonium nitrate? No, never mind. I don't fucking want to know. Can I pop into the latrine, or do I have to get home looking like a mucked up nonce?”

"By all means," Mycroft said. "Escort these two to the bathrooms, and then off the premises please."

John was still fighting to control his anger, and forced himself to breathe slowly as he fell in step with Seb. "You okay?"

"All right." At least it was easy to keep up with the man this time, which was good because John's leg was killing him.

The guards stopped what felt like half a block down from where they'd last stopped, just in front of a matched set of employee washrooms. Seb knocked the door open with his shoulder, giving one of the guards a dirty look, and John just shadowed him into the room. Seb set his bag of personal items on the counter beside the sink, and started to pull his t-shirt off, knocking the tap on quickly. His back looked like a mess of welts and bruises, mottling over older scars and burns. "I appreciate the rescue attempt, John, even if Iceman and I did come to an agreement."

"Yeah, well, I get the biggest idiot of the year award, that's for sure," he muttered. "What the hell did they do to you? When we get back you’re having a proper soak and I'm taking a look at you. Mycroft is so close to getting punched..." He was riled up and the expected push and drive had not been expended. 

It was just sitting there, waiting, frustrated and knotted up in his stomach with nowhere to go. It was all of the build-up, and none of the adrenaline fuelled relief or sense of accomplishment. And Seb didn't answer his question, just ran the t-shirt under the tap and started to hastily wash his face and neck, half-watching John in the mirror. "You were right about the trap. They dug up Jim's grave, probably before my men even finished with it. Have him in a cold storage locker in the Webster building. They waited to grab me until I'd gotten there and seen for myself. Still. Suppose it's better to know than to not know."

John wasn't sure about that. If he knew, and absolutely knew he wasn't sure if he could keep going. And that was a hell of a revelation to have when they'd never been more than friends.

"So, isolation was the equivalent of making sure you didn't run off and do something stupid," he said. In some ways it was possibly the only thing that might have stopped that immediate urge in Seb. The man was an expert in self-destructive. "I shouldn't have said anything. I was played, and I should have realized that but I thought... well." 

"Would've struck home eventually." His mouth pulled a little, more a miserable tug than a smile but it seemed more honest than the expression he'd given Mycroft earlier. He leaned down into the sink, stuck his head under the tap and haphazardly gave his hair a rinse. "Anyway, they sent guys in regularly enough that I got caught up in...." He reached for a wad of paper towels. "Not giving in, I suppose, just to be contrary." 

Which made Mycroft completely bloody brilliant.

He should have known, it was exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would have done. Sized up the man and known that without challenge, direct physical threat to survival that was just enough, he would implode and self-destruct.

"Right, yeah. Sheer bloody mindedness can solve a lot of things sometimes." Dammit, now he couldn't even be properly angry with Mycroft. "I'm glad in a way I guess, if it kept you from, you know…"

Finding a tall building and jumping. Putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

John grimaced, because those were images he couldn't really shake, even though he'd seen just the one. And, well, that second one a time or two during the war, during military service in general. He half watched Seb dry himself off, and then fished the pieces of his suit out of the plastic bag. It was, actually, perfectly normal to carry on a conversation with a flat mate, a roommate, a fellow member of the unit while they got dressed. "Right. And apparently the arrangement is I carry on doing what I do for queen and country. Not exactly what I expected."

That was a surprise, although logical if he thought about it. "A criminal on the payroll. Or does that make you legit now? Anyway... Oh, I broke into your laptop to get here. I needed your plans. You have a severe powerpoint addiction, you know that?" 

"How the hell else do you think a man makes it to OF-5?" He snorted, sliding out of the sweatpants and pulling trousers back on. "Gannt charts? Sure, powerpoint. Quad charts nested in quads? An excellent planning tool. Whatever you're smoking, sir, I'd certainly like a huff. Don't tell me the medical community was immune that.”

"Not immune, just able to say ‘I've got an urgent patient to see to,’ at opportune moments," he said in reply. "We get bogged down in different types of bureaucracy."

"I'm sure you did." He zipped up, buckled his belt, and then reached for his boots to pull them on. "Hell. Do you want to go out for dinner? I could kill for a meal."

"Sure. After we have a shower," he said absently and then realized it sounded wrong. "Uh, separately."

He got a funny sideways cut of the eyes for that, while Seb balanced on one foot, tying off his bootlaces. "Funny, Mycroft mentioned something similar."

"What?" John was confused. "What did he say?" Yeah, they could go out somewhere for a nice plain meal. A good steak, or something.

Seb shifted, pulling his other boot on. "Asked if we were sleeping together. I sort of looked at him funny for it." Oh, well. He could see how Mycroft could jump there. Sort of.

"Oh, for..." John huffed a little. "I think Mrs. Hudson is thinking something similar." He didn't entirely dismiss the idea, as keyed up with adrenalin as he was.

Still moving stiffly, Seb shrugged his suit coat on, and grabbed the bag of the rest of his stuff. "Right. I'm not sure who that reflects more on." He lifted his eyebrows, and pulled the bathroom door open. "Huh. Wonder if my car's been towed."

"Probably. And I expect it will end up delivered outside the door tomorrow. We'll take mine," John said as they left the bathroom to be escorted by some waiting security.

Mycroft was gone, which John was almost relieved to see, because he didn't really want to have to face the man just then. Or any time soon, given that he'd broken in with his ID card, and been ready to shoot him to get Seb out. 

Seb gave the guards a boredly dirty look. "So, did you catch a cab here? I don't think I've ever asked if you drive."

"I can drive. I hired a car, it's just pretty pointless to drive in London. But cabs seem to have a tendency to infiltration so I thought I would... you know," he tried to explain and cleared his throat. "In case we had to get somewhere fast."

"Out of curiosity, did the exfil plan involve hiding out at your sister's?" Seb's voice tilted towards mildly teasing, and it left John at a loss. "I do appreciate the effort. Might've needed it, too."

“Yeah well, you don't leave people behind enemy lines do you?" he said. What a monumental screw up. Sherlock would do that supercilious look and laugh at him in a way that had always prickled his pride.

"No." Seb's eyes shifted a little, looking forward again, and John gave up and mostly focused on the walls and the door they were nearing. Seemed to be another way out entirely. "No, you don't. Which got me into the trouble in the first place." 

John frowned a little. Was he talking something literal or was Moriarty one of those suicidal last ditch effort behind a metaphorical enemy line? "Well, at least we're practiced at trouble." They were ushered outside and he had to reorient himself to work out in which direction he had left the car.

He turned to pull at Seb, and wasn't really surprised to find him flipping off the camera outside the door that had just closed behind them. It didn't take long, and Seb turned back to him to follow in quick order. "We are. If you ever get bored... There's an opportunity to do illegal things legally if it ever interests you."

"Bored? I’ll let you know if that's a problem." He didn't want to be a criminal. He bent the rules with Sherlock to play the game, but on the side of justice. He liked that. He liked being on that side of things. "I liked being a good guy. Even if it was a hard-put upon good guy."

"I can respect that. I just didn't care." Where John was more interested in doing good. And Seb... wasn't. That was sort of a key issue that he might be tempted to work out one day, but not then. Not when he was still all wound up.

He shrugged. "The car's this way. We could get takeaway if you prefer and you can crash out at home... the flat." Maybe a pizza, Chinese or Indian or something. A couple of six packs. He hadn't drunk anything for the last week but it seemed this was a good reason to have a beer.

"Sounds even better." Seb was fishing his cell phone out of the bag. "Nice. Seventy *two* missed calls, and 400 texts. Fuck." Seb was busy texting; busy picking up voice mail as they made it to the car and almost without comment started the trip back. It figured. International criminal mastermind didn't exactly come with much holiday pay.

"World come to an end while you were out?" he asked after a long ten minutes of silence.

"No, and they can all go hang until the morning. Got a couple of doors to kick down and I should be able to get them before they think about lifting their heads from their pillows. Also, Mrs. Adler says hello." He slouched slightly in the passenger seat, still flicking through messages. "Honestly, if I didn't answer the first time, you'd think the next ten messages are about as useless."

"Maybe they thought you were ignoring them." John shook his head. Irene should have stayed clear. "Pizza, Chinese, Indian or something else?"

"Pizza?" That was a choice made, and easy. "Sounds good. So, did I miss anything? You doing all right?"

"Fine." It was a lie of gigantic proportions. His faint hope of seeing Sherlock again had been quashed, he had realized that you didn't miss just-a-friend quite so much as he appeared to be doing now, and he'd risked everything on an ultimately pointless plan. "Pizza's good. I'll get extra. The fridge is clear, we can have it tomorrow. I'll phone it in when we get back."

"Appreciate it." He clicked through a few more texts, and then set his phone down on his lap with a sigh. "Didn't mean the knock earlier about the exfil plan. I might've needed it."

"You probably would have thought of something," he said. "If you'd really wanted to get out of there. I've seen in your laptop, remember?" There had been a lot of dry unadorned reports. Moran wrote reports to himself for god's sake, for the sake of keeping accurate records. "I just didn't know what Mycroft would do to you."

"I didn't, either." John stared at the taillights of the car in front of him, heard Seb shift again. "It could've gone very badly. Nearly did, though I don't know if he did that for show or not."

"Mmm. I think if he was serious I wouldn't have stood a hope from hell of getting in the building," he said. He smiled a little bleakly. Something had gone a bit weird between them. There was a sort of a tension there he hadn't noticed before.

He was just crap at handling that sort of thing, because. Because he hadn't had emotions to really worry about before. Sherlock just *carried on*. He'd been a bloody force of nature, and John had mostly had to worry about protecting his own emotions. "Maybe. We would've gone down fighting. Handcuffed, but fighting." There was a wistful edge to Seb's voice. 

"You sound like you wanted that," John almost accused, unable to help himself. "Blaze of glory time – is that all you want?"

Seb exhaled, hard, almost a laugh. "Christ, right to the issue. I don't know. I kept all of this in the air because I thought Jim might come back. Jim's gone. I. I." There was a moment of quiet. "Your therapist taking new patients?"

"I expect she could be persuaded." That was oddly good news that he was even thinking about it. The guilt was there again, for the false hope he'd fed Seb. He pulled into a side street and parked the car. Home was just around the corner. "Okay, Domino's or Pizza Hut? What do you want on it?"

"Anything." He fished his wallet out of the bag, too. "Really, food just sounds brilliant right now. Been a couple of days."

"Shit, you should have said, I could have given you something on route," John replied. "Don't worry, it's on me. Get inside, have the shower and I'll call. They'll be here in 20 minutes."

He stared at John for a moment -- and he did that occasionally, so that was all right -- before he nodded, and popped the door open, getting out. "Thanks." It'd give John a couple of moments to think in the car, and get himself together.

This was ridiculous. What the hell was going on with him? His therapist would tell him he was having some form of extended breakdown, but if so it had been going on for several years now. Long enough for it to feel almost normal.

He called and ordered one vegetarian and one meat feast, and some extras because Seb would be ravenous once he started eating. He stood outside for a bit trying to clear his head. Did he want what Seb had basically confessed to wanting? Was he actually... jealous of what Seb had had, no matter what a complete nutjob Jim had been?

He had to admit that maybe he was. It was a horribly fucked up feeling, and it didn't help when he hung up on the pizza man and saw his sister calling.

"Shit." He considered rejecting the call but picked it up, repressing a sigh. "Hello, Harry."

"John, you're alive! Surprise!" Oh, lord. John tucked his head down, not that it did him any good. The hire car people'd be back in the morning to pick it up, and he took his time looking to see if they'd left anything in it. "How are you?"

"I'm fine Harry," he said in a put upon tone. "I just wasn't feeling social okay?" Still wasn't. "Answering the phone was... more than something I wanted to deal with. Sorry."

"I worry about you, that’s all, John. Would you like to come by tomorrow?" Oh, god, she wanted to pin him down across from her at a table where he couldn't escape like he could on a cell phone.

"Uh, no, I've got...” Shit what could he say? "Look, Seb's just got back okay? He's had a rough week. Can we maybe meet up in the week or something? For coffee or something?"

"Seb." Harry repeated it like he'd just named his cane or something. "The new flat mate? Seb. Is it a thing with S names?"

"Sebastian, yeah and obviously I choose flat mates based on their initials," John said rolling his eyes. "He was in my unit, I told you that. He needed a place to crash and...well, the rent needs to be paid."

"Right. So he's had a rough week, and you can't come by for dinner or coffee?" Right, that did sound horrible when she said it like that. "C'mon, I worry about you, John."

"I just said we could do coffee," John said exasperatedly. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm doing okay."

"All right. All right. I can tell when you're going to hang up on me. Let me know if you need anything." Harry was, in all the ways that John could tell, rather exactly like having a brother to deal with, which he supported, made it easier than if she tried and tried and didn't give up. He'd hear about it later, in a week. "I'm holding you to coffee."

"I'll text or call nearer the time," he promised. He did feel a bit bad about effectively blowing her off so he said. "Thanks Harry… I appreciate the concern."

"Mmmhmm. I'll work out how you actually are, John. Go on, go prod your new flat mate." And she hung up. Wouldn't even let him get in the last word, which was. Well, it saved him from having to think of an answer.

Seb'd dropped an unlit cigarette in the foot well.

John fished it out and sighed. He ought to be more gracious about the concern that his sister had for him, but he remembered the literal years he had battled with her to get her into a clinic to dry out, and now it had finally happened, she did have a tendency to lecture. It bothered him, that suddenly she was in the place to take him apart about his, admittedly, sometimes bizarre life. Well.

There wasn't much to do but grin and bear it. In small doses. Paired with coffee.

* * *

Watson was hiding out on the street but Seb didn't really, couldn't really process it. He mostly been glad to get out of detention, but it was everything that came after it that was maddening for him, trying to mentally put himself into the next step. Into just. Moving on with the Empire, fixing everything, living life with Jim dead.

He managed to get himself undressed in the bathroom, turning the hot water on before he stepped into the shower. It was a shock for a moment, hot water against his skin while he pawed at a bar of soap. After the initial shock, the stiffness in his muscles began to unknot, and some of the physical discomfort started to unwind. Watson had been right about the shower part. The splash of water back at the Webster building was not enough to erase a week of interrogation. Hunger was starting to stir in full force, now that he was out of immediate danger. But his mind was going crazy again because there was a new element in the mix. Why had John risked everything to come after him? He had been a party to nearly killing the man, to offing his best friend.

He'd been involved in every step of the way, and he'd been pretty bloody honest about who he was and what he did. There was an overwhelming urge to take the man by the shoulders and ask him what the fuck was wrong with him to not have a problem with Seb. He needed to have a problem with Seb if he was at all sane. Fuck, maybe that was the problem. Probably neither of them were playing with a full deck, and shit his back was killing him now that he had time to let himself feel it. It'd always been that way, things not really setting in until he had time for them.

There was a small part of his mind pointing out that John hadn't reacted badly to the suggestion people thought they were sleeping together and... That was tempting. But he'd probably be using him. On the other hand, he'd done that with Jim, used him and was used by him. It balanced out.

It'd worked out pretty damn well, and maybe that made Seb immoral. It probably did make him immoral, but he had a pretty good history of serial monogamy, even if it was somewhat under-inspired. He leaned into the hot water, maybe using too much soap. Didn't really matter, he had a week to make up for, and it felt good to be sort of clean again. He just needed to shift the way he was thinking about things.

After all, any day above ground was a good one.

There was a temptation there, to latch onto a more solid presence. It said something about them both if John Watson was the more solid presence of them both. He might be wound up in his own personal disaster but he was a trained observer. Little sleep, he hadn't been eating -- John seemed to have gone through his own form of interrogation.

Internal, but a man could drive themselves right up a bloody wall with time and determination. He leaned into the shower wall, cranking the water over to hot just a little more. Fuck, fuck hot water felt good, and he could worry about what the hell was going on with John later. Soon, but even minutes was later.

Seb was as red as a lobster by the time he got out of the water, grabbing a towel to wrap around himself. There was a layer of grime on the floor of the shower that made him grateful he'd showered before getting around to eating.

He felt partway human again, as much as he ever did and as he was entering the surprisingly tidy living room area, John made it in. "Hey, you look...do I need to get burn ointment out?" he asked as he tossed his keys on the side. "Some of those bruises look nasty. Not much broken skin though. Surprisingly."

"They were pretty careful, except for the loose molar." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, heaving to his room. "Be right out, just want to get trousers on." One of those hysterically expensive t-shirts and a pair of sweats that weren't detention centre issued.

“If you want anything treated I expanded my medical kit," John called after him but didn't press the point. Which was good, he liked bruises, liked the ache of them telling him he was alive.

He needed something to feel alive, and if it took pain, then it took pain. Pure and simple. He left the door open as he dug clothes out, stretching his fingers, feeling the ache there, too. His cell phone was sitting on the side table in the main room, but he left it there. No sense in engaging with anyone when his head was all fucked up and things wouldn't get any worse than they already were. "Appreciate the offer. Thanks, John." He dropped the towel, and pulled his sweats on.

"Oh and I had to go into Sh... your room to find the pass," John confessed from outside. "Sorry if I misplaced anything."

He rubbed a hand over his stomach, pinging bruises all the way, staring down at himself for a moment before he started to look around the room. "That's all right. You came for me." Even if he didn't need to, he had. Which was something Seb had never expected. 

Seb pulled his t-shirt on, left arm seizing a little, then sweats that were his, and made his way back to the main room.

"Pizza will be here in a minute. I phoned before my sister called," John said side stepping the conversation hook.

Seb let it go, and carefully slouched down onto the sofa. He was only halfway pretending he had any sense of posture left. He was tall enough that it just didn’t matter when he slouched, and it was easy to backslide when he was in pain that wasn’t of the interesting sort. "Mmhm, and she had anything interesting to say?" He needed to stop openly watching Watson. There was impulsive, after all, and then there was listening to any old suggestion someone put into his head. 

"No really. She was demanding my presence," John admitted as he fetched some of the beers. "I used you as an excuse not to go, but I've got to have coffee sometime this week." He gave a wry smile. "I think she is desperate for me to be falling apart, so I can join the club."

"If you see your sister, maybe I'll make an effort to see mine." Not that he was even particularly inclined to move just then, but when John swung by with an open beer held out to him, well. He was at least inclined to take it from him with a murmur of thanks. "Mind, yours is probably less. Mother hen." It came with being the youngest, he supposed, and their mother. Well.

Christ, the way suicide and thrill seeking ran in the family, it was a miracle that the family line had held on so long. 

"She has a tendency to...well, addiction," John said tossing him a beer. "I've always been the stable one. I think it half fills her with a thrill to think I'm not so perfect after all."

"Nice. And what's her excuse? Life's so hard, girlfriend cheated on her?" He palmed the bottle for a moment. 

"I'm not sure," John shrugged. "She's been relapsing for years. I finally got her to go to rehab and stay this time. Funnily enough, after I came back from Afghanistan screwed up myself."

He took a swig of the beer, still watching John as he settled in briefly. "Yeah. The arm and the leg. Not that I have a leg to stand on." He exhaled hard, and took another sip. Beer before food, after two days without, not the best choice. "I didn't actually come back and do coke for a month, but I did sort of. Lose track of what I was doing." 

The bell rang and John heaved himself up again. "Pizza," he said limping off to fetch it. "I'm told there's nothing much wrong with my leg now but that doesn't make it hurt less."

"Yeah. Human mind's a funny thing." He got to his feet to at least grab napkins to support the pizza. 

It smelled fantastic and rather than sit on the other side of the room, John brought the boxes over and sat next to him. "Vegetable, so I can pretend to be healthy, meat feast topping here to build you back up. Oh and uh...garlic bread and the chicken kickers. And some of the Ben and Jerry's ice-cream for afters. Or later."

“Post-prison feast, fit for a king." He leaned forward, nudging open the top box to steal himself a piece. "Excellent, cheese is still burning." And John had sat right beside him. 

He snagged a piece as well and started eating. "They feed you at all?" John asked.

"Digestives and office tea after about a day. Did that twice." He turned it over in his head. "Water in the mornings. Not the best, all in all." He was going to take his time, chewing slowly through his first piece. "Keeps a person confused, and distracted. Got to say, he's good at what he does."

"Yeah, but I guess I should have known that. Why did you call him the Iceman?" he asked.

"Can't get a rise out of him. Jim started it, and believe me, he tried. Tried to get Mycroft to play with him *long* before he started tagging at Sherlock. We did a few jobs for them, and it interested Jim." He chewed the crust slowly, alternating it with swigs of beer before reaching for another piece. "Masterful planner, but Jim came at things sideways, upside down, just cut those plans in two."

"Yeah." John huffed. "I gathered that. Sherlock was more... on his wavelength. Mycroft is meticulous. He plans things. I just wish if he wanted to tell me something, he didn't feel he had to whisk me away mysteriously. He seems to enjoy it. "

"Control. He has people dancing to his tune." Seb exhaled, taking another swig. "My new fucking boss. I have no idea what I've gotten myself into."

"I'd say could it be worse," John commented. "But you seem to enjoy the extreme."

He missed Jim. It was fun when he had Jim to play off of, to react to, to... to interact with when they did it. Now it was going to be a fucking ugly slog for the sake of it. "That's sort of simplifying it. I was part of something bigger than just me. How’s the hospital going for scratching that need?"

"Not enough adrenalin. Now I think about it, living with Sherlock was pretty much like being at war," he replied. "Frustration, never having a damn clue what was going on, adrenalin pumping danger, bullets flying and. Well, you know the rest."

He reached for a piece of the Garlic bread, still pacing himself. John seemed to be nursing his beer with slow, slight sips, probably thoughts of his sister hanging over his head. "So, you broke into a government building to get me out."

"Yeah?" John looked at him as if surprised he was bringing it up. "It seemed the thing to do. I was responsible for you being there."

"No, you weren't. I'm half a madman, and completely criminal. I broke into a government building, and had to try two separate fucking morgues, and why? To find that manic little asshole's body sealed up in a drawer because he blew his own brains out. You didn't have anything to do with sending me there except handing me the tip. I." He finished off the beer, and swallowed the rest of the words with it. His hand was shaking and if he had any sense at all he'd just go and shut himself up into his room until he calmed down. "Fuck. Fuck."

"Hey, hey..." John put his hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, you're safe now." Yeah right. Maybe Seb was, but John probably wasn't.

John probably wasn't because *he* was there. And John trusted him, which was really sort of fucked up on John's part. He closed his eyes for a moment, tight, and the hand on his shoulder just moved a little closer. Right. Right, fuck, maybe that IED blast had just rattled loose the impulse control in his head, and John reminded him too much of every good soldier he'd ever lost, except for the funny dickheads and that was just Jim in a nutshell. It was the quiet tragedies, the… The guys who were two weeks, two months from going home, baby due in 6 months, six week, six days, two kids, a dog, parents, it didn't matter, it all blew, and humans found the dates and the times and tied it all up in a story that made it worse because there wasn't a damn thing he could do.

His throat hurt. 

"You know. You're probably going to have to get a restraining order to get rid of me."

"I'm okay with that," John said and he did seem okay with it. It occurred to him that no-one ordinary could put up with Sherlock either. He didn't withdraw from touching him either.

Fuck it.

Seb leaned over, slow, watching John's expression, his shoulder against John's, and his mouth close enough to kiss John. Just, warning, because he'd been hit enough over the last couple of days and really could give it a skip for a day.

John was either completely clueless or he really didn't mind, because he didn't move, just looked oddly quizzical but in a ‘what are you waiting for way’. Unless that was Just Seb’s interpretation. He looked like he wanted something, but didn't know what.

Fine, then. He let the empty beer bottle slip to the floor, and turned into John, pressed his mouth against the other man's and leaned into him, and it was a damn good thing John didn't go for a wet fish impression just then. No, there was a moment where he seemed not to believe it was happening and then he joined in enthusiastically. Vigorously even, warm and solid and it was different to how he expected. Yes, he was earth to Jim's fire but he'd always assumed that would be ... dull somehow. It wasn't, there was a strength there that was unexpected.

It didn't stop Seb from pinning John to the sofa by his shoulders, the grip on his own shoulder flexing, almost relaxing. When he pulled back, there wasn't any sense in checking if John was all right. Fuck, if he wasn't into men he wouldn't have kissed back.

"Mmm."John grinned a little. "This is probably a bad idea but...what the hell," he murmured, tugging him down again.

"It can join the list." Of bad ideas that he went through with anyway, probably the last four, five years of his life. Seb pressed his mouth to John's jaw, not biting, kisses, kisses like normal people did. John was sliding a hand up along his back, faintly cool fingers against skin as he rucked the shirt up. Fuck.

There was the ache of pain there, and it was a small taste, something to season his need. Just a little pressure there and a bloom of what he needed. John was more muscular than Jim and there was more physical strength under his hands. He liked that, it was something he dimly remembered liking from before everything became about blood.

He sighed against John's skin, left a faint scrape of teeth against his neck and kissed him again by way of apology while he tried to figure out with one hand how to get the buttons of John's shirt open. Muscular and an arm around him, fingers pressing against his back, almost grounding while John tilted his head and let him take what he needed.

Fingers were tracing the welts on his back and the kissing was getting harder, more intense. Fucking with Jim had been a match tossed on high octane fuel. An inferno that seared the skin but burned out as his attention waned. This was a slow burn, a fire warming from the inside out, penetrating deep into his bones. There was heat between them, growing hard.

He just needed to focus, and the sofa wasn't really big enough but he also wasn't going to move. Seb pulled a knee up, between John's legs, got himself a little space, enough to move his hands from John's shoulders to start stripping him or at least try, shirt open, trousers open. Squirming his own t-shirt and sweats off was a damn piece of cake comparatively, and in between, trying to keep that contact, mouth on mouth, breaking off to suck a spot just in front of John's ear that got him a nice caught-breath sound.

He would have put John as a talker, but maybe everyone seemed quiet compared to Jim’s incessant stream. John was more an enthusiastic participant, exploring and touching with eager slightly rough need. Now they were skin to skin, and that was an electric feeling he craved. Something that was more than hollowness, a want so tired with longing it had forgotten its purpose. Closeness, real intimacy with someone thinking about him, it stirred a hunger inside of him.

Seb almost bit John's shoulder when he managed to get their hips together, the slow, heated rub of cock against cock. "Oh, Christ." He got his knees between John's thighs, but it just helped the angle, gave him a little more purchase, and the feeling of John's leg twitching and curling behind his thigh was great.

It was holding him tight, secure and he liked that. And he liked using his strength. "You don't have to hold back…" John murmured in a low whisper that hit his nerves and woke them up.

It was just rutting. Just. Just, and never mind that nothing was ever *just* anything, but it felt good to slide his hips against John's, grinding their cocks together until he got enough forethought to add a spat on hand into the mix to guide everything along. John was hard, felt uncut, and the low burning feeling of urgency just wouldn't let him break the moment to get anything silly like lube.

They were just going to have to make do, though it was probably it was in the house somewhere. Fuck. Movement, slow and intense. Gripping and being gripped, a clench of hand against short hair. A tug to adjust the angle of his mouth so the kiss could be rough and urgent too. Didn't hurt, just felt. Felt good, particularly when John's hips started to jerk counterpoint to his own, groans and low noises filling his ears as he broke the kisses and sucked a mark low on John's neck. He felt John's leg flex, twisting, fighting something, holding back? So he ground his hips down hard, hard enough that he heard the sofa creak just as he started to come.

"Fuck!" At the same time there was a tighter grip on his back, and a more frantic movement from John against him until he felt a burst of heat between them, liquid and evidence of John's own climax.

He pressed his forehead against John's shoulder, still on his knees, back bowed. John maybe. Maybe had an inch of height less than Jim, so the height difference wasn't strange or different, probably less hysterical-seeming for John's natural strength. He smeared his fingers over John's side, before he managed to get his hand behind John's back, the other man squirming almost helpfully. "Mhm."

"Well...that was fun," John said after a lengthy pause. "More pizza?" He had groped down to the floor and stolen a piece from where the box had slid and waved it under his nose. "If it gets that sort of effect from you eating one slice..."

"Two," Seb countered, though, honestly, he wasn't sure why. He shifted stiffly, turning a little and caught between John and the back of the sofa, bare-arsed. John obliged him by shifting a little, putting a foot on the cushions. "So."

"Remind me to get a throw for the sofa if we're going to do this often," John replied and grimaced. "Leg cramp. So..?"

Seb blinked a couple of times, then took the piece of pizza. He didn't have to think or talk about it, he, they, whatever the hell. It could just *be*. "All right. Probably a wise thing for the sofa's sake."

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingers ghosting at the edge of John's jaw, just lingering, like it was all interesting to Seb, while he whispered, “This is where you get to knee me in the crotch if I say the words ‘stoke my fire’.”

Coffee with Harry was never an easy thing. She had a tendency to carry things to extremes, and coffee was now an obsession. So he was sitting with her in a very exclusive coffee bar, with an outrageously expensive cafeterie of admittedly fantastic coffee between them, while she tried to delve into his psyche with all the skill of a surgeon wielding a chainsaw.

He might as well have been in Texas chainsaw massacre, which. He'd actually been able to watch without a constant running commentary of the sort Sherlock gave him, but there had been a commentary. Mostly cheap shots at the show, and Seb wandering off part way through to ruin the microwave with popcorn, coming back with tea and the burnt bits left in the sink. A proper coffee maker had appeared, and that was an easy way for him to tell if Seb was awake and gone already come morning, because he usually left half a pot, fresh, in his wake.

"You look like you're doing better," Harry said in that way that implied he hadn't before.

"I've been sleeping better," he said ignoring the fact that it had only been the last few nights. Some of the guilt had its edge dulled. "How about you? What's going on for you?"

"I've started dating again, but it's..." She gestured to his neck. "Clearly not carrying on as well as your rebound efforts."

"Rebound efforts?" That was...well. He self-consciously pulled his shirt collar up as if it would help cover whatever mark Seb had left. "From Mary? That was a long time ago." 

"No, I meant from Sherlock, John." She took a little sip of her coffee, as if she was extra-showy savouring the taste of it. Which was a bit different than Sherlock drinking it like he was bored of it, or Seb occasionally swishing it around like it was mouthwash. 

"Sherlock and I were not having a relationship Harry," he said firmly. "You know that. But you keep ignoring it." Partly because they had everything that was the spirit of a relationship without the fact of it.

It had all been there except the making out on the sofa. Harry gave him a dubious look, but apparently she could take at least a huge signal waving back off sign. "It just seemed like you were. You were tied to him at the hip. I'm surprised you didn't bring him 'round for the holiday. You were always at his side. So, it was an emotional affair, John, if nothing else."

"It was how I was making a living as well," he pointed out mildly. "So it was emotional, fine." He shrugged. "I'm dealing with it."

"Mmmhmm. By jumping right into something else entirely." She lifted an eyebrow at him, taking another sip. "So, am I going to get to meet him?"

"How do you know it was a him?" he asked. "I have been going out with women." As she well knew.

"The hicky's huge." Her mouth quirked. "Anyway, if you were dating a woman, you would've told me her name, her eye color, how nice she is and where she works, because you're that sort of fawning romantic."

"Well thanks," he said sipping to coffee. "He is my flat mate and it… well, like I said, it just happened when I was helping him out."

"Uh-huh. If you don't tell me more, I'm going to write it out in my head. You don't generally fall into bed with your flat mate. Well." She cut him another look. "I've done it, but still, John. I thought you were always above that sort of drama."

"I told you he was a member of my old regiment. We've got a lot in common." Both partners to crazed geniuses. "He'd been in a difficult situation and I helped get him out and one thing led to another."

"It really just sounds worse every time you say that, John. Honestly, if I were telling you that same story, what sort of looks would you be giving me?" Dirty ones, but she was a different person, different experiences. It didn't fit her.

"It may not go anywhere," he replied with a shrug. They had not been talking about it. Just...doing things as the occasion arose. "We're just... letting things happen."

It was, almost, comfortable. And Seb seemed less shaky, though John was keeping himself blissfully ignorant of what the man did when he left the flat. "Mmm. Well, if you need to get out of the flat or you have a row, let me know. Guest room's always open, John."

"You know, I tend not to have spectacular rows with anyone, I leave that to you." And her ex-wife Clara. The two of them had been a danger to eardrums. "How goes the heady world of publishing?" He wasn't sure if she was even still working for the same glossy magazine she had been last time. She seemed to have a new contract every other month.

Little wonder, with her bizarre work ethic. The bizarre part was that she had none, but a load of natural easy talent when she put her head to it. It was annoying. "Oh, fast deadlines and dropping subscribership. You know how it goes, all right enough. Everything's new media this and new media that, and twitter and *blogging*, and people living off of their cell phones."

His blog. Still left half-finished and...he still couldn't complete it. "So moving into that area?" he asked politely enough trying to steer clear of that.

"Starting next week. The problem is monetizing it..." Oh, that was his cue to stop paying attention, or at least to listen vaguely and nod his head, because it was a bit like an incoming Harry Monologue. "After all, how do we turn tease readers into subscribers or ad clicks? There's a thousand other weeklies trying to crack the same nut, and most of them are being run out of someone's basement, not with the sort of overhead we have..."

He nodded and made encouraging noises because when Harry got onto her own topics, she could, with very little encouragement talk about little else. Unless she was really determined. He had thrown her a bone about Seb, and hopefully she would be satisfied with that and then leave him alone.

And it worked, for a good ten minutes, and all he had to do was provide minimal input because yes, blogs *seemed* easy, until one ran out of words he could honestly say, that he wanted anyone else to see. Grief was a horrible emotion to put on paper, no matter what his therapist said about catharsis. 

John had almost finished his coffee; Harry sat back in her chair, and sighed, "So. I still want to meet your new. Whatever. Flat mate. I thought you were going to leave that place after everything that happened."

"I nearly did." He said. "I wasn't going to but, things changed. Let's give it a bit more time huh?"

"Mmmhm. Are you at least getting out? Working every day?" Ah, back to John being the failure. Maybe he was just being touchy.

"I'm working regular shifts, not every day right now but close. Doing minor ops right now and ER surgery." He looked at her and tried really hard not to get resentful of this attention. She never wanted to know when things were going well.

She'd never asked much when Sherlock was around, because it hadn't smelled like a train wreck to her. But now... "Good. I'm glad to hear it." Like hell she was glad to hear it. The patronizing edge to her mouth all but said it, but it said it quietly, tastefully. After all, they were in a coffee shop that was too hip to exist, with music drifting from the ceiling that John recognized *none* of, and...

"You should get out more. You're young, fun enough, apparently, you've always had loads of... Of really tall men staring at you. Do you know tall, blond and angry at the counter, there, John, because he keeps staring over here?" 

"I." He ended up rubbing his forehead. "Seb." He hoped to hell Seb wasn’t obsessively stalking him, that would remind him too much of Sherlock. "Hold on a moment.”

He didn’t even have to turn around and look, because there Seb was. Dressed sharply, and looking wholly together and, right, a tiny bit scary. He didn't look scary around the flat, which maybe meant he was there for the day job. In which case, he needed to get Harry *out* of there. John pushed his chair back, and headed over to the counter.

Seb's eyes widened just a flicker in recognition, and then he nodded. "Hey. Is that your sister there in the corner? Is this like the happening coffee shop for upper class bints? Rebecca told me to meet her here." He had his wallet out, flicked his eyes over to the cashier and oh Jesus, he had a stiletto in his palm.

"If you want a coffee *that* badly I'll buy you one," he said in as subtle a warning as he could manage. "She's been asking all about you...”

"Jeeze, are you just trying to drag me in to your misery?" He flicked his eyes over to the cashier. "I'll be here for an hour. Tell your boss I'm waiting, and he's three weeks late, all right?"

The cashier was too young for that sort of thing, but she swallowed and nodded her head. "Y'yes sir. And your coffee is uh."

"It's a collection, not a stickup," Seb sighed, sliding the knife away into his sleeve – knife in his sleeve! -- and pulling out a fiver to hand the girl. 

"Do you have to do that yourself?" John muttered as the transaction was completed by the confused shop assistant. "I thought you had lackeys."

"I figured since I was coming here anyway... personalized service." He lifted his eyebrows at John, and dropped the change in the tip jar. "Your sister?"

"You want to see her? She's been driving me crazy. She only really knows your name, and that we were in Afghanistan," he muttered in a low voice.

"I'd rather pull my own teeth out." He shifted, and bumped gently up against John's shoulder before taking a step away from the counter. They'd probably bring Seb's coffee out, or call the cops. Or both. "Fuck it, let's get this over with. Maybe I can sit Rebecca down across from her and we can both run for the door."

It was a roundabout way of agreeing but John gestured him over. "Well, Harry looks like you get to see my infamous flat mate sooner than anticipated. This is Seb, or Colonel Moran as he used to be."

He inclined his head and held his hand out politely enough. The hand that hadn't had the knife. "Harry, John's mentioned you a couple of times. Good to meet you." 

"Colonel. Good lord, John, well, pleasure to meet you, too. Why don't you pull up a chair?" She was looking at John with her eyes, as if to ask "Oh, *really*?"

"Apparently this is the in place to meet sisters for coffee," John put in as he sat again. "And yes he really is ridiculously tall.

Seb pulled a chair over from another table, half watching the door as he sat down, slightly closer to John but still caught in the middle now. Harry's eyes were almost delighted, because she could get at John through Seb in her mind, that much was clear. Apparently Seb represented the quick and easy way to get all of the dirt on her brother.

"John mentioned you had a rough week last week... I hope you're feeling all right."

"Great, thanks." He shrugged his shoulders. "Had a rough business trip, it was just really good to get back."

"Oh really?" Harry asked. "What business are you in?" She did seem overly interested and John had to resist the urge to stamp on her foot or something.

"Defence contracting." At least Seb had an easy answer for her, smoother than when he'd tried it on his own sister. "How about you? I know John's an excellent doctor, so what do you do?" 

"Oh I'm an editor for a publishing house. I tend to get sent in to trouble shoot for different magazines," she replied airily. "A lot of interviewing celebrities and re-imagining layouts. I get to go to a lot of highbrow parties. Nice suit by the way."

And she was probably thinking what type of contractor could afford a suit like that.

"It was a gift." He gave her a tight smile, leaning back in his chair. One of the baristas was walking his cup of coffee over. Seb tended to drink it blacker than pitch, with a touch of sugar. He gave the girl a nod and took his cup. "Thanks."

"Mr. Williams is uh. He." Seb cocked an eye brow at her, and she went quiet. 

"No rush, love. I'll come by his office on my way out." He cut her off before it sounded any worse.

"You know the proprietor?" Harry was all over that. "Maybe you can find out what they put in their special mix. I've been dying to know."

"Harry is a little obsessive about coffee," John chipped in trying to deflect her interest. "I managed to get her some of that...chewed on by a civet or whatever it is stuff for her birthday. Cost a fortune." Well, Sherlock had after he'd spent ages trying to get some. He said it to stop him boring him to death with it but...

"He was a friend of my partner's. I'm not sure what's in the roast." He took a sip, "but it's pretty all right."

"It's divine..." She smiled at him and John started to get the impression she was almost flirting with Seb from the way she was looking up at him coyly. His sister had a genius for the inappropriate. "So you were in the same regiment as Johnny?" 

"John," he corrected automatically. She was doing that deliberately.

"I've always called you Johnny," she protested.

"And I've always corrected you," he replied again.

Seb took another sip of his coffee, hiding a smirk pretty poorly. "I was. I was infantry. John patched my men up, once or twice. Got them stable for transport."

"Probably more than once or twice," John said. "And don't even think about calling me Johnny."

"But you outranked him,” she said sweetly. "You could call him what you like."

"Right. If I were an asshole officer who enjoyed taking the piss out of my men." He quirked an eyebrow at Harry. "You get a feel for what's all right joking and where the lines are."

"I'm his sister, I get to cross the lines. It might even be my duty to do so," she said with a laugh. "John's always been very good at everything."

Oh god, not the jealous thing again. "I just made the most of opportunities," he said.

Seb shook his head, taking another sip. "Everyone has something they're good at. If you're lucky, it ends up being your job." He leaned back a little more. The door opened, and there was Rebecca. "Great. Rebecca, over here." He stood up, moving to snag another chair. 

"They're so well turned out," Harry sighed, looking at Rebecca as she started towards them. If there was a god, she wouldn't flirt with his sister. 

She looked a little surprised to see a gathering of them there, but came over. "Hi, I didn't realize it was going to be a crowd," she said with a polite smile at John.

"Neither did we. Turns out I arranged to meet my sister here too at the same time. Great minds and all that," John said getting up automatically to pull out a chair for Rebecca.

Just as Seb came back with another chair for himself to sit in, and probably having made gestures at the Barista. "I'm Harry Watson, John's sister. It's good to meet so many of the people John knows in one day!"

"Good meet you," she said politely. "I haven't seen Sebastian in a while, we were just going to catch up."

"I think Harry was trying to do the same," John mentioned. This was easier, more distraction from him with any luck.

The fewer people paying attention to either one of them, the better. Seb settled back into his chair with almost a smirk, picking up his coffee. "They'll be bringing you one out, Rebecca. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, but I had an unexpected week-long trip. You know how it goes. But out of it, I'll be doing a bit of work for your boss, actually." 

"Oh really?" She did sound surprised at that so John wasn't entirely sure whether she was a better actor than he thought or she didn’t know.

"What work do you do?" Harry asked leaning forward a little. She was definitely interested in Rebecca but John noted her flick of a gaze to a wedding ring.

"I work for the government. I'm an aide for one of the leads in a government think tank," she said with a pleasant smile. "He does tend to get involved with all sorts of areas."

"We'll talk more about it later." Seb's eyes settled on Rebecca, as if promising her that it wasn't the whole discussion. "My sister here is really brilliant. I'm content to comparatively be the family fuck-up, given how effective my sister is."   
Harry laughed at that and John sat back, noticing Rebecca eyeing him as well. "No more effective or brilliant than you could be Seb," she replied as if the swearing was expected from him.

"You don't get to be a Colonel by being completely incompetent," John pointed out.

"Yeah, but you get there by being a steady soldier, a good shot, and enjoying exercise, danger and PowerPoint." He took another sip of his coffee. "It isn't as if infantry isn't called idiot sticks for a reason." 

The barista came back again, carrying a cup of something for Rebecca. The hysterical part of it was that she looked a cross between determined and out of her mind with fear as she set the rather good looking coffee in front of Rebecca. "Here you go. Sir, Mr.Will--"

"Not now. Make yourself scarce, darling. Thank you." There was an edge of solicitous ice to his voice.

He could see Harry raising her eyebrows a little and cleared his throat. "Well, sometimes the shifts in casualty feel a little like being back there. It's difficult to leave that behind."

"How did you two meet anyway?" Rebecca asked curiously.

"It's a cliché but we met in a bar," John answered.

"My partner had a habit of recommending places to eat on the likelihood I'd get food poisoning," Seb shrugged. "Can't recall what John's excuse was. Place had horrible music."

"I just was getting something to eat after...can't remember what I was doing actually," John admitted. "Fancied some steak and chips. Seb was there propping up the bar."

"So you chatted him up?" Rebecca asked.

"We knew a few of the same people. You don't have to make it sound so bad." He was smirking, though, unrepentant as he drank his coffee.

"It does sound sordid," Harry chipped in.

“Actually, we just chatted a bit and had a drink and then went off," John said. "Nothing sordid happened Harry. Not everyone picks people up in a bar."

"Still, it sounds like you did. How did, uh..." She lifted her eyebrows. "You end up moving in together? I know Stamford put you and Sherlock together." Harry was all prying now.

"Few months later, looked him up after a few things went south for me." Seb glanced over at Rebecca, who was probably busily filling in the blanks.

"And he needed somewhere to crash out and I had, there was..." John had to clear his throat. "An empty room at the flat and the rent."

"Seb fell on his feet then," Rebecca noted. "He does do that. Like a cat that way."

Seb snorted, looking down into his coffee cup. "That. Is certainly one way to put it, yeah. Never really expected things to go quite that wrong. Not the way they did." 

Rebecca was looking at him a little strangely, but it was Harry who said almost sympathetically, "Messy break up?"

"He shot himself. Gave himself a fucking skylight." Seb's expression was particularly blank. He usually couldn't even dance around what Moriarty had done without halfway shutting down, and just then didn’t seem to be an exception from the way he shifted, and looked down. "He. Fuck. Right."

Harry looked shocked. "Oh my god, I'm..." She glanced at John for a moment and he just *knew* her next words would be 'you two have a lot in common' so he cut in.

"It's a difficult subject, maybe we should talk about something else."

"Please." But it was still awkward, tense. Seb was just holding the cup in his hands, on his lap, and John was half tempted to pour himself another cup from the thing he and Harry had been sharing, just to have something to do. "So, there you are, Rebecca. Caught up on what your baby brother's been doing. How're the kids?"

"They're doing fine. You should come and see them. They are always asking when their cool uncle Seb is coming around," she said fiddling with her cup. "You can bring John."

"Might. This Saturday?" He glanced over at John, half asking a question.

"Sure." He was okay with that and Seb looked like he could use the help.

"I'd ask you to come visit our family, but both John and I are letting down the family name," Harry commented.

"Sometimes that's all right, isn't it? Rebecca's actually good with kids. She's one of those whirlwind, do it all sorts that everyone loves to hate. Jeremy's not half bad, either." Something finally got a laugh out of Rebecca, quiet, not so strained.

"God, a real life domestic goddess," Harry said with a smile. "Maybe I should do an article on a successful example of work life balance."

"Well you won't be coming to me for that," John said with a faint smile.

"I dunno. The washing gets done, uh..." Seb looked up to the ceiling. "When necessary. And takeout isn't all bad."

"Tell me you are not living on take out..." Rebecca’s voice pitched towards alarmed

"Only when I'm on a later shift," John said placating. "I cook. It's even healthy...ish."

"I was kidding." He nudged her knee. "Jeeze. I cook, or else Jim would've lived off of coffee and crunchie bars. And I don't think John's flat-mate ate anything but tea."

John smiled a little. "You cook? Why didn't you tell me? All this time…" He was winding Seb up deliberately because it was more interesting to do so that look at his own sister’s knowing expression.

Seb pulled a face, and rolled his eyes comically. "All right, so grilling and pasta bake aren't the best, but it's food." 

Rebecca chuckled. "Beans on toast was about all he could manage before he went into the army."

"Food of the gods," Harry chipped in. John could remember going to her flat once and finding her passed out surrounded by empty bottles, empty baked bean tins and toast. It was obviously her staple diet at the time.

"I dunno, there was jam in there, too. Bacon." He set his empty coffee cup on the table. "If the army'd wanted me to learn to cook, they would've issued lessons. Which is probably why dinner usually looks like survival training. Still, got rid of the pigeon problem for Mrs. Hudson."

"I really hope you didn't eat feral pigeon/" Rebecca’s voice pitched toward alarmed.

They hadn't, but that didn't stop John from saying. "Shit, I thought those drumsticks were on the small side."

Seb's laugh was quiet, low and relaxed, real and warm. He made a gesture with two fingers to indicate the tiny size of those drumsticks. "Use enough lemon, can't tell it's all gamey. It's all about seasoning to mask."

"Plum. It's meant to be plum with pigeon," Harry said. "I've had it a few times and it's always with plum."

"Maybe I should make you cook when you come over to prove it," Rebecca suggested.

"All right. I'll bring the meat Saturday if your Jeremy dusts off the grill. It's a bet." The relaxed smile faded a little, and John turned his head to see the barista coming towards them again. "All right, this is getting annoying. John, sorry to parachute in and out like this -- Harry, nice to meet you. Rebecca, can you hang on for a minute? I just need to have a word with Mr. Williams and I think he's gotten antsy."

"No probs, Harry and I ought to probably think about leaving you guys to discuss brother/sister stuff anyway," John said looking at Harry willing her to agree.

Harry nodded politely, small wonders, and smiled, holding her hand out to Rebecca first, then Seb. "It was great meeting you both."

It was a civilized polite exchange and he was grateful for that at least, as he headed off, limping towards the door. His leg tended to get stiff after a while of sitting down and he grimaced a little as he headed out, give a short wave of acknowledgement to Seb.

All in all, not as bad a coffee with his sister as it'd had the potential to be.

* * *

Mr. Williams had an awkward aluminium suitcase full of cash, that he insisted on giving to Seb immediately, all debts settled? And Seb agreed, all debts settled, until he decided to incur another one. Getting his wife's papers all nice and legal had been *hard* and pricey, and when a man wanted perfect quality, he needed to pay for it. Seb wasn't even sure why he was letting the lateness slide, except that he'd sort of fallen apart and hadn't sent someone with that certain look in their eyes to collect sooner.

Still, it was awkward to come back to the table where Rebecca was sitting with a suitcase that all but shouted, "Actually, not a mercenary, just criminal. Hello!"

She looked at the case and at him and then looked exasperated. "So this is what you are doing?" she asked in a low voice. He thought she was going to be condemnatory in general until she said, "Milk-runs?"

He sat down in the chair John'd been in, and set the case between his ankles. "Please shut up. I'm cleaning up a few messes."

"It sounds like it," Rebecca said. "Mr. Homes, Mycroft has... filled me in some on what happened." She looked a little awkward about it. "I'm sorry, I. I didn't know at the time. I'm still trying to get my head around the idea."

"Which part?" He reached for the last of the coffee, and splashed a little into his cup since it was sitting there. "What I've been doing since I was discharged, or...?"

"Pretty much. I knew, well, we suspected the… whole gun for hire thing," she said in a low voice. "I just didn't know who was picking up the tab. God, Seb, of all the people…"

"I was his right hand, Rebecca, so you might want to keep yourself from saying whatever you're thinking. I can't even, I can't." He pressed his tongue against his teeth for a moment, closing his eyes. Christ, he needed help. "He was brilliant, and burning with energy, and I don't regret a minute."

She looked at him in that searching, knowing way that she used when they were kids and she had basically been bringing them up -- while their father buried himself in some latest diplomatic disaster and they were shuffled from country to country. It was one reason he had stayed away, she was too good at reading him. "When you said partner, you really meant. Partner, didn't you?"

"Yeah." He took a sip of the coffee, and licked his bottom lip as he sat up a little straighter, cupping the coffee cup. "And he fucking blew his brains out and just. Everything fell on me. The business, his. His stuff in the flat, it. I thought for a while he'd played some game and was still alive, so I. Well, you know. And your boss is smart. If he hadn't... detained me, I think I would've killed myself. I'm still. Not sure what I'm doing, or why."

She reached for his hand then, and she was Becks then, the way he'd called her when they were teenagers and she seemed to have an answer that would solve everything and it didn't matter what he'd done. "Oh Seb, I'm sorry. You should have called me."

"And, what...?" He didn't pull away, but had his head tilted down, couldn't quite look her in the eye. "I can't, I. I-- John's willing to put up with this shit because he was the other side of it. And no, it's really not sane, but I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Seb, John's a good man. But you have family, too, okay?" she said stroking his hand just a little. "You never had to deal with any of this alone."

No, he didn't, but it wasn't exactly safe to not deal with it alone. "Never really been good at that." He'd gotten worse since he'd gotten back -- couldn't really handle discussing anything that had happened, and then Jim had been there. And then he couldn't discuss Jim. And now... Well. Now things were different and miserable and strange. He caught his sister's eyes. "Really. We'll be there Saturday. It’s an excuse to get out of the flat, at least. It's the most I can promise."

Crime could take a day off.

"John will help you," she said. "The man has the patience of a saint, seriously. He put up with Sherlock longer than anyone I know, except for his brother." She sat up a little. "You remember my address? We'll barbecue then, the kids love it and you can be all manly with the fire, and bond with Jeremy."

No pressure, just. Being. He gave a short nod. "Yeah. We'll be there, 'bout 11?" It seemed like a doable time, even if John slept in comfortably. "Thanks, Becks. I know it's all fucked up right now, but... I'm trying."

* * *

Often shifts in the Casualty of St Bart’s as surgeon on call reminded him of being in Afghanistan, but with a lot less noises of bullets and explosions at the same time. And sometimes the shifts were like today where there were mercifully little in the way of serious car accidents, or stabbings and he was put on the front lines to deal with the idiots who drank too much, or the mysterious chest pains, or the mothers who were convinced their baby had meningitis and it was a cold, and the mother who was sure it was nothing but they were a bit worried and it was something like meningitis. It was at least varied enough to be generally interesting and keep his mind from getting too insular.

He needed to not sit in the flat and dwell. He had to keep…. Keep going. Because. Because Sherlock was still out there somewhere, he was sure of it, and it was sort of horrible that that was it. That was why he was muddling through the mixed bag of easy and hard shifts, because he was still holding onto hope. And there was nothing else to do, because John wasn’t really the killing himself sort – he just muddled through instead. And life, life hadn’t been very bad at all. It wasn’t high adventure, but it wasn’t quiet and lonely, either.

The weekend before with Seb’s sister had been impressively relaxing, and he was glad he’d gone. Her domestic goddess status was actually true, and Jeremy, the brother in law, was a detective inspector who was just unflappable and relaxed. It was good to just talk about things like politics, the news, to have an adult conversation with intelligent people who didn’t really have a stake in things, who knew their worlds comfortably. Jeremy had admitted that he didn’t actually support any of the UK’s recent wars, but that he also knew enough to say that when Seb was in the backyard helping the kids with a tire swing. John had actually gotten a lot of dirt on his flat-mate, between the two of them – everything from Seb running away from home to go camp in the woods, to his hysterical non-reaction to the stripper he’d hired for Jeremy’s stag party. She’d moved to give him a lap dance and he’d complained loudly that she was interfering with his smoking, and batted her off.

They’d stayed rather late, had a little good red wine, made it back to the flat just before midnight to find Mrs. Hudson worried and pleased to see them both all right. Seb’d crashed out in John’s bed, even if not much had come of it. And if he could just get his head on straight, it *really* wasn’t a bad way to live -- moment to moment, little quiet enjoyments like a decent shift and a couple of critical patients taken care of, a decent movie, a flat mate who knew his way around a man’s body.

He cleaned up after suturing a DIY accident – really who did DIY drunk? That was just asking for trouble – and glanced at his watch. Nearly time to finish up. The busy period was over and he was looking forward to going home which was a change. Seb usually managed to make it back roughly around the same time and maybe they'd watch some TV or something.

"Patient in 3 can leave when they've got dressed," he said to Nurse Rawlins, who was wandering past with a clipboard and sputum bowl. "Any others desperate for attention or is Kelly ready for the handover?"

"No, it's been quiet," Nurse Rawlings confirmed. Quiet, quiet day, the sort of easy quiet that made him itchy. "I'd do the handoff if I were you. Tomorrow's Friday and that'll run long."

Fridays and Saturdays were a nightmare in the casualty usually. "Right thanks." He limped his way towards the reception ignoring the bleary drunk who was pointing him out, shouting "I've been stitched by Dr House!" simply because he had a cane. Kelly was just coming in, having put on her scrubs. The smile she threw at him was nice, if perfunctory. 

"Busy one?" she asked, tying her hair back smiling at him.

"Reasonable. Didn't have to break out my scalpel and wasn't called in from upstairs," he said. "Most cleared through. There's a chest pain, male late 50's, reasonably fit who I sent up for tests. They should admit him but Cardiac have been known to bounce them before. Don't discharge him until he's had another ECG.... I'm pretty sure he's had something, it was just indeterminate when I took it." 

Working with Sherlock had made him better at being a doctor. He saw tiny things, things he knew he would never have noticed in the past. Tinges of colour, scent, heartbeat, all symptoms and clues he could use. He had a reputation for picking things up in a way that seemed impossible and he knew Sherlock would have laughed from the irony.

Use it where he could. "It probably won't be indecisive by the time he leaves. Right. Enjoy your night, John." She was well rested looking, which was good. He wasn't sure how rested or not he looked.

"Thanks," he said and symbolically slipped off his ID badge as he headed for the door. He always used this entrance now, because he just couldn't go anywhere near that part of the building, or the street. He just couldn't. His attempts to force himself had ended in disaster.

Time to head home. He hoped Seb had a reasonable day. John was contemplating the point where he was going to say ‘let's do more than just hands on’. It had been great, they were obviously compatible but he knew that he wasn't the grand passion of Seb's life.

But that was all right. It wasn't like Seb was really John's great passion, and that was fine. It was comfortable, and doable. He just needed to settle unto the fact that he was settling. Maybe the fact they both knew that they weren't made it okay. It wouldn't be like he would be blocking someone else’s chance at being truly happy. He knew that, so the least he could do was to give everything he could to Seb. Maybe it was time to move things up a gear, or suggest it. Problem was that he didn't actually know what Seb wanted in that regard. It had been fairly obvious who was on top before, but there had been hints in the way they had been that he enjoyed it the other way too. 

He needed to, maybe... Say something to Seb. Anything. If nothing else, he might get a funny look if he shouldn't have been asking at all. It was something to mull over as he hitched his way up the stairs. The flat sounded quiet, but Seb was usually silent in there.

It might be easier to carry on just feeling their way, only John knew Seb stopped short of... well presumably what he wanted, which didn't seem right. He opened the door and headed in looking for signs that the other man was there. 

Seb was sitting at John's desk, laptop set up, typing away. There was a gun disassembled on the table beside it, but it wasn’t one of Seb’s better handguns. He glanced sideways, and sat back in the chair, sporting a hell of a shiner. "Do I even have to ask how your day was?" John said as he hung up his jacket and headed to get a cup of tea. "It looks eventful from here."

"Oh, bloody excellent, why do you ask?" Seb snorted, pushed his chair back while he stretched. "How was yours?"

"Lives saved, idiots patched up, nothing spectacular," he commented. "One day you'll not have bruises on your body and I won't recognize you."

“I probably won't recognize myself. Still, I keep the local pharmacy in business." He wandered into the kitchen, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Just another day in the jungle."

"How did he get so close?" John tried for unconcern but he couldn't help it as he followed Seb into the kitchen in space of tea. It did bother him when Seb took more risks than he needed to. "Don't think much of your security." 

Seb flinched back minutely when John started to lift a hand to the edge of his eye, where skin had broken. "Got reckless. I'm a little more hands on than Jim was."

"You might want to think about adjusting your work style. Don't poke it. Have you iced it? Or do we need the frozen peas again?" It was an in joke by now that the frozen peas were never eaten, only ever used as icepacks.

"I iced it." He moved around John a little, grabbing the mugs down off the shelf. "Got anything planned tonight?"

"Nope," he gave a faint smile at Seb. "You?" Seb tended to get a little wound up if he had had a physical day, but he might have something organized. They didn't live completely in each other’s pockets. It wasn't like he was dating or anything.   
"Nah." He gave John a funny sideways look, and added, "Though, I'm out tomorrow night. Got stuff to do that you don't want to hear about."

"Probably not." John said making the coffee as he knew they both liked it. He contemplated food, and opened the fridge not sure if he could be bothered to cook. Toast might do...oh, Mrs. H had left some of her famous left over pork pie in there. That would do. She was the only person he knew who *made* a pork pie.

"Yeah." He was lingering a little, tense in an inactive way. Getting plates out, getting moving. Hell, maybe it was the time to just out and say something. Maybe that was what the inactive sorts of silence was. "Do you want veg with that? We've got peas thawed."

"No, it's okay, I'll have it cold. Had something at the hospital, so I just need a snack," he said. "You eaten?" Why was it so hard to say anything? Maybe he had gotten out of practice with Sherlock reading everything about him.

And on the other side of the coin, Jim just *did*. "Nah, not yet. I was writing a threatening letter in Italian." He leaned against the counter, watching John. "So."

"You want some of this? Or something else?" he asked brandishing a slice. And still he was finding it difficult to broach any serious subject and Seb was doing that weird watching thing again.

"Yeah, I could try a piece." He lifted his eye brows at John. "Right, so we're both not, uh. Damn, I'm horrible at this."

John laughed as he cut a piece. "Horrible at what Seb? I can think of many things you are very talented at." It was as much teasing as flirting. If he thought of it as teasing, he wasn't quite so self-conscious.

It was easier. He was used to carrying on with women, not men. Seb reached out, leaning in close, fingers against John's cheek. He had a tendency of completely broaching John's personal space. "So, uh is that your vote on plans for the evening?" he tried to say flippantly but he was already reacting, thinking of what he knew those fingers could and would do.

"Yeah. If you're not..." Seb stayed still, fingers still stroking, leaning in to John close enough that he could feel his breathe on the cheek. It was a little like facing off a predator, ready to spring.

"Oh, I think I can deal with that." He was looking up into his eyes and holding them in a challenge that was making his pulse accelerate. "If you want to stop holding back this time..." There, he'd blurted it out, but at least it was dangled out there to see if the predator would take the bait.

Fingers slid down, curved around the back of his neck in a sensual way. "Have you ever...?"

"Yeah, back in Afghanistan," he murmured feeling a shudder run down his spine. Powerful hands, hands that held the power of life and death. "It's been a while."

"Okay." Seb pressed his mouth against the side of John's jaw, lingering with threatening heat. "I should let you eat first. Might be a while."

"I told you, I only need a snack," John answered and then nearly choked by trying to eat the pork pie too quickly. "Well that'll teach me."

Seb managed a quiet laugh, giving him the space he needed. He took a bite himself, swallowing quickly. "No, I meant it might take a while. In a good way."

Okay, he definitely liked the sound of that. "Does that mean we actually won't wreck your back and we’ll use my bed?" he said taking another bite.

"We should. Yeah." Seb wiped the edge of his mouth, still watching John. "Do you have preferences?"

"Uh, to use a bed?" he repeated. "Wait, are we actually talking about this?" he asked unable to hide the incredulity in his voice. "You weren't writing threatening letters were you? You were getting in touch with your feelings."

"No." Seb sounded almost offended, but he was smirking as he said it. "But sex with men is the only type I’m familiar with and I... Don't know your history. People are funny about things."

"I'm probably not as experienced as you, but that doesn't mean that I don't want to be," John answered. "Although I'm never completely sure how you want to do things."

"I'm oddly pleased with anything." There was an honest quirk to his voice when he said it, setting his plate aside before he edged back into John's space. "Not everything has to end in a bloody, fucked up mess to be good. There's something to be said for a slow, slow burn." And something to be said for the way Seb moved so easily into his personal space again, comfortable, like he was compelled to touch John. Fingers ghosting at the edge of his jaw, just lingering, like it was all interesting to Seb, while he whispered, “This is where you get to knee me in the crotch if I say the words ‘stoke my fire’.”

John had to choke back a laugh at that. "I will, don't think I won't." He could feel the warmth from Seb standing so close. It was something he noticed about him, that he ran a twitch hotter than normal like his own personal radiator. Fuck the food, this was getting much more interesting. He held Seb's gaze for a long moment, feeling the anticipation rising in them both. So he leaned in for a kiss.

It didn't disappoint, never did, and John supposed that was what made it easy. Seb pulled him in closer, turned a meeting of mouths into a full body affair. He leaned back against the counter, and pulled John with him; fingers on John's jaw moved back to his neck, curling at the nape. He felt the relaxed pressure of parted lips against his own, and just responded.

He liked the feel of muscles and hard lines, liked to lose himself in the moment of kissing and human warmth. Seb was very attentive, very physically demonstrative -- opposite to the way that he wasn’t able to talk about things. "Mm..." He started to tug them hopefully in the direction of his bedroom. Food could definitely wait.

There was a moment of jerky movement, when John caught his heel on the floorboard between rooms, and Seb broke away, laughing quietly as they steadied themselves. "Right, kissing and walking is too complicated. Jesus, how many jumpers have you got?" Not that it mattered, because he was pushing it off of John's shoulders. 

"I like jumpers," he said. "It's England, it gets cold and damp and you can't beat a good Aran knit for that." Hands underneath, rough with used on his skin. Yeah, that was a turn on. He returned the favours, hunting to undo Seb's belt.

Seb's fingers strayed briefly, unbuttoning John's shirt while he leaned back in, leaving biting nips along his jaw. "It's right between school teacher and not giving an arse." And Seb still dressed for work the way Moriarty had left him, expensive suits and ties, but John was getting a feel for the other guy that was still under there somewhere, the beat to hell jeans, polo shirts, sweats and hoodies that spoke of a taste in clothes formed when he was young and never adjusted. "Suits you."

"Mm. Kinda don't give a shit about clothes right now," he mumbled getting the belt unbuckled. "And I'm definitely on the not giving an arse continuum. Shrink a bit you tall bastard, you're at the wrong level." He wasn't really short he just was in comparison. Well, he kept telling himself that.

He really should've gotten used to that. Seb laughed, slid an arm behind his back, and *pulled*, which, right, John hadn't been expecting it, but it was still startling to go from being standing next to the bed to turned around and sitting on the bed. "Whoops, no, that made you shorter."

"With certain things at eyelevel," he said with a smirk glancing upwards. 

Seb shrugged out of his shirt, halfway pulling it up over his head. The brief parting made undressing much easier. He'd just skimmed his trousers off, and onto the floor, when Seb leaned into him again, urging him further back onto the bed. Which was a nice change from the sofa. More room, less worry about getting his elbow into the wooden frame again.

Less painful on the back. He'd managed to shimmy out of his pants, his shirt and one sock before Seb pushed him down. "Slow burn huh?" he said in amusement

"Last live in banned me from metaphors," Seb murmured, kissing his collarbone, "so I'll spare you any jokes about kindling."

"And rubbing two sticks together," John replied pushing up against him as Seb lean over him. 

"Pffft, hand drill." Seb slid a hand down to John's hip, pinning him in place for a moment. "You said you wanted more."

"I'm assuming you do too." He hoped he did, he really did because he didn't want this to be a favour. He wanted it to be good for Seb as well. He wanted to feel more, something hard and wanting, and Seb really was everything anyone could want.

He felt the faint press of teeth against his collarbone, and then Seb dragged a kiss atop the faint mark, mouth lingering. "Right. You don't have condoms or lube in here, do you?" 

"This is my bedroom -- of course I do." He gestured randomly to his chest of drawers. "There."

"No, no, just making sure I didn't have to make a naked jog." The hand on his hip moved, fingers wrapping around John's cock in a loose, teasing way. Seb was leaning on his other elbow, and god, he was a sight, black eye and bloodied orbital bone, slow grin as he lifted his eyebrows at John.

He raised his back. "Do I want to know what you are planning?" He had that look to him which he wanted to keep there. Something a bit lighter, a bit less dark and twisted.

Something relaxed. Still a little assholish, but easy about it, John decided. Seb shifted down a little more, kissing his way towards John's left nipple. "You always think I'm planning something. Maybe I'm just going with it."

"Maybe you just look like you plan everything." John replied and then he groaned as Seb made it to his nipple and started paying it attention.

Right. He needed to react, he needed to do more than half hold on to Seb and wonder what other bruises or injuries the man had because he really hadn't paid attention when he'd been stripping off, and now the view was sort of occluded. The feeling was wonderful, though, particularly when Seb's fingers squeezed at the base of his cock.

Two could play at that game. He reached out trying to find where Seb's cock by feel. That would be an encouragement for Seb to do more. It was easy to start light strokes, encouraging squeezes to keep the attention going.

Seb twisted his hips into the motion, giving a startled huff against John's skin. "Fuck." It gusted as an uneven exhalation beside his nipple, Seb plastered against John's side for a moment. "Go on, make it hard for me to try to suck you off. Christ."

"Well, you don't like things easy do you?" he murmured and deliberately took a bit more of an active role, taking advantage of Seb's distraction. Now it was his turn to get him worked up by nuzzling at his chest and biting down enough to mark.

There was something in the way he exhaled, shaky and a little out of control, a little edged, that affirmed to John that Seb really liked that. Just an edge of pain, pressure. Not much, though he imagined he could probably overwhelm Seb with a wash of it all sometime. Seb got his other arm around John, just holding onto him. The bed made the minor tussling for dominance much easier.

He didn't really want it, but he had enough pride that he wanted to be a challenge, to be good. To make Seb feel he had earned what he managed to get and that it wasn't just available to anyone. If Seb liked a touch of pain, he could provide. There were ways to just bring an edge of it without physical damage. He stroked with one hand, between them, and then continued the exploration with the other hand trying tease Seb into allowing him to push him back, just so he could eventually get him to retaliate.

It ended with John pinned firmly to the mattress again, legs sprawled comfortably, and Seb grinning, hands on John's forearms after a minor struggle. "Honestly, of all the things to fight me off over." He pressed kisses low on John's stomach, lingering at his left hipbone, with John's erection jutting up against him.

He chuckled lightly to himself and then found himself making completely different sorts of noises when Seb reached his goal. "Oh...fuck..."

Right, right to the sucking. Suction and slurping hard enough to make his toes curl, enough to make his bad leg twitch a little, with hands pinning his wrists to the bed while Seb went at his dick like it was an ice lolly. And he had his eyes on John, watching him up the line of his body.

"Jesusm Seb." He was nearly gasping and pushing up against him with more and more strength, unable to help it. 

Twisting and trying to get more, but it wasn't helping. Or hurting. Seb was setting some pace of his own, and John just had to follow. The fingers on his wrists faltered eventually, went looser, let go and moved to John's hips. Not to pin, just to stroke and touch, fingers sliding back to cup at his asscheeks while he sucked John hard.

"You... carry on like that..." He couldn't even finish the sentence. He would come and that would be it, before the main event.

He patted at Seb's hair, coarse and clean under his fingertips, and Seb stopped, pulled back, and licked his bottom lip. "Right, but you liked it?"

"Arrgh, don't stop." He clutched at Seb’s hair instinctively. "Come on...like I wouldn't like it. I'd like it more if you hadn't stopped."

"Sorry, I couldn't work out if 'you carry on like that' was begging, or a threat." He paused, and blew a thin stream of air over John's cock, still damp, before getting off of the bed and deserting John entirely. To, it looked like, fetch the lube and condoms. Oh thank god.

John flopped back taking some deep breaths while he waited flexing his leg to stretch it out so it wouldn't cramp unexpectedly. That was the last thing he needed to have happen. Thankfully, Seb was back quick, loping the couple of steps between the draws and the bed, half way unscrewing the lube. "Look at you."

"I'd rather look at you," he said, and it was true. Seb still had his soldier's physique, shadows picking out muscle definition all over his body.

He hadn't slumped into not doing PT, hadn't really given up the lifestyle at all. Seb stood there for a moment, right at the end of the bed, watching John, and then shaking his head as he put a knee into the bed and climbed back up over John. "Glad you like the view. I still prefer mine."

"As long as we are both happy," John murmured, reaching for the contact of skin to skin again. He was already plotting how to repay Seb for this. A full therapeutic moving to erotic massage might be somewhere to start.

Later, though. After. The contact never stopped, never lulled -- kisses, insistent, slow, steady mouth to mouth lingering. "Do you want to turn over? I don't want to bugger up your leg."

"Depends how slow you're going to go," he said. "More than a few minutes then...yeah." It was half an enquiry. He could do it, just not for long periods without cramping.

Seb nudged his forehead against John's temple, sighing and smirking while he reached for a pillow. "Right, then roll over. I'd like to... really take time. 's been a while for you, after all." 

He smirked back and settled himself comfortably. If Seb really were going to take a long time he wanted to be ready for it. The pillow Seb put under his hips helped, just a little elevation. He didn't move into things immediately -- started all over again with hands on John's back, kisses to his shoulder blades, slow lingering touches like he enjoyed that as much as the rest. Finally there was a slick of lube against his asshole, a little cold, and Seb leaning into his side while he did it.

"Think of it this way," he murmured against John's shoulder-blade, "if you ever have a really fucked up day at the hospital, and want to come home and choke me out with a belt or something, you'd probably improve whatever my day was. Which is probably fucked up, 'n really, last time I'll ever mention it." First time he'd ever mentioned it, too. There was a faint pressure of teeth against his skin, just there and gone, and then John felt the slow push of Seb's slicked thumb into his ass. Slow, slow, careful, a nice easy stretch and burn in contrast to Seb's fingers stroking at the curve of his ass, his other hand easing over John's cheek. John stretched his hands against the bedding.

He shifted a little to accommodate it, knowing it was a hell of a lot different from the quick and dirty fucks back when he was on active duty. He wasn't that fragile. "You know...it's not like I'm a virgin at this," he suggested after what seemed and eternity.

"Pfffft, take a man's fun away. I'll hold you to that." There was a shift, and Seb leaned back, while John rested his cheek on his arms, crossed under his head, just waiting. There was something to be said for anticipation, and then there was the even better feeling of Seb's knees settling on either side of John's hips. Finally, finally, a good solid pressure against his ass.

He exhaled, pushing back a little and feeling a warm burn growing. It was a bit of shock to feel the size of a cock pressing into him after so long, but he’d wanted it. Missed it, liked the stretch. He was reduced to make a few groaning noises. Seb was grinning against the back of John's neck by the time he managed to push all the way in, before he started to move. "Christ, you feel good. Fuck." Just in him, and the faint hitch back of the other man's hips made John shudder another groan. Maybe the slow prep hadn't been a bad idea after all. 

The need for movement started to grow with the slow movements that Seb was making. It had been a long time since he had done this, and it was as intense as he remembered. "Fuck," he mumbled into the pillow imagining the look on Seb's face.

Next time, they'd have to do it face to face, so he wouldn't have to imagine. Seb's thrusts started to build, slow, steady, firm enough to jar John's hips with every stroke back into him, with Seb kneeling over him. "Uhmhm, Jesus." He slid a hand under John, fingers sliding over his stomach and stopping there, pulling him up from the bed a little.

He shifted his position trying to find the best angle for movement. The fingers were fantastic as they were seeking further down and Seb kept moving. He moved again and then nearly yelped as it hit the right spot. Another hard thrust, and another, like being fucked by a metronome, over and over again at the same right spot. It left John panting, groaning and a little startled as Seb carefully got him up onto his knees, kissing behind his left ear.

John was a little disoriented and he had to brace himself, looking over his shoulder to try and see what he was doing. He didn't have much time to see, because Seb took his turned head as an invitation, kissed him briefly, starting to thrust a little harder, pushing John past starbursts while he wrapped fingers around John's dick. 

He grunted and then started thrusting into that hand as he moved with Seb's forceful pushes. Everything started to fade away except that push and pull of movement and the slick feeling of pressure around his cock causing wonderful sensations.

He could just give in and *feel*, which was sort of a luxury, no worries about someone walking in or inappropriateness because he was in his own bed and no one was anyone else's senior officer, or fraternizing. And Seb fucked like a machine, until his leg felt shaky and stroking fingers finally pushed him too far.

He made an inarticulate noise, and came hard, clenching around Seb in reaction even as he struggled not to just collapse with the release of tension. 

"Ummh." Seb's arm bracing against his hip kept him mostly upright though the next few thrusts and a couple of stuttered motions before Seb started to slouch, letting John ease down to the mattress. The feeling of him pulling out wasn't entirely comfortable, but Seb didn't go very far.

His leg was grateful for the respite -- he had no idea how long it had taken, but he obviously needed to do that more often to regain some strength in his muscles. 

"Well..." He broke the silence after a long pause where all that could be heard was the pair of them breathing heavily. "What do you do for an encore?"

Seb laughed, sliding an arm around John's chest comfortably. "Smoke and a shower. You were glorious."

John laughed. "Glorious, huh? First time I've been described as that," he said letting himself relax against Seb. "Mm."

The feeling of lips lingering almost fondly against his temple was relaxing, Seb's breathing slowing. They could just lay there, loiter for a while and bask in the mess they'd made of themselves. "Much better than the sofa."

"Much more comfortable," he agreed and yawned. A shower would be good. "You seemed to enjoy yourself." He hoped so at least. Seb had felt like he was restraining himself somehow.

It was hard to tell, given that he'd just been fucked to what felt like within an inch of his life. The way Seb held himself sometimes was strange, that tension, like he was afraid of what might happen if he really relaxed. Still, lips against his temple curved a little before Seb declared, "Oh, yeah. Yeah, I did, thanks. Like I said, glorious is the right word."

John snorted a little, and realized that he didn't want Seb to leave the bed and sleep elsewhere, not after that. He was silent for a while struggling to work out how to say it aloud and finally said in the comfortable silence, "Stay?"

Fingers on his shoulder stretched a little, and he felt Seb nod. "Glad to." They'd work the rest out later, probably in as few words as possible.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes -- well, most of the time -- John forgot that Seb was essentially playing the part of Moriarty's stand in. He worked weekends roughly when John did, nights sometimes, but most of the time he got up early and managed to get back home before John did. He alternated being the web-weaver behind the wall of phone-calls, texts and laptop work to being the strongman, both parts of the game, but it didn't seem that bad from John's point of view.

Mycroft was generally less of an ass than he'd been after Seb's week in captivity, but it never made his reports to the man any more relaxed. He lived at that damn club, but getting called up to meet him at an actual office was enough to make Seb's hackles itch. He had places to go, had an appointment to make, and that'd just be shit if he ended up walking into another trap. Everything was going well and tidy, so there was no reason for him to anticipate that -- except that was what Seb did. Anticipated, got a little further than he had a few months before. Managed the whole mess a lot better now that he had a routine built around it to support himself. Which had been the problem, all of it had been to support Jim before, and for a while he'd run it with no sense of personal concern. He'd stepped back from getting his hands dirty, just a little, with only necessary exceptions. 

One of those necessary exceptions had been today. Just a little dealer who'd gotten antsy and decided to step out of his territory and make unwanted waves. Keeping those groups in their place, filling the vacuums with pre groomed actors who he knew, managing crime. It was so fucking easy. 

He sort of loved his job.

He was ushered in - not Becks for a change - and Mycroft was sitting there sipping tea and ...well of course, his choice of coffee was there waiting for him along with the bagels he occasionally treated himself to if was passing the shop. It was uncanny, and an unsubtle reminder that he was being watched at all times.

"Do have a seat Sebastian," Mycroft gestured. "There is no need to stand on ceremony."

He still waited for a beat, eyeing Mycroft with a comfortable sort of distrust before he sat down. He reached for the coffee, leaving his gloves on. "Habit. What can I do for you, sir?"

"I thought you had sufficient time to settle back in. Your organization has stabilized, so I believe it is time to examine some of the opportunities." Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "Give me your report on the state of things."

"Solid. I'm starting to reach back into some of the more interesting for hire stuff Jim used to do, and managing my usual stuff quite well. You'll know that from your own records." Crime in London, in most of England, was going rather smoothly. "We've had an inquiry from a French anarchist group about bombs. The rest of it’s dull little things that you might be able to turn to your advantage." He reached into his jacket, pulling out a flash drive. "Full reports and financials are here. I've also started dealing with Italian antiquities smugglers from Iraq and Afghanistan."

Mycroft nodded. "Excellent. They might make useful pipelines in the future. Build up those avenues. I can establish some buyers for those goods and make the demand attractive enough that you will have a very good relationship with them." He sipped his tea. "I am sure the reports are more riveting, but I called you here to get more your impressions and hints of rumours you might have picked up, no matter how nonsensical they might seem."

"Right, and you're going to have to be a little more specific than that, because I hear an awful lot of rumours from my people. Everything from the queen actually being a corgi, to FARC going straight up for profit. I'm afraid you're going to at least have to pick an area of operations you'd like to hear about." He shifted, sat up a little straighter in the chair, taking another sip of coffee.

"Eastern European," Mycroft said looking at him intently. "Anything from that region."

Seb closed his eyes for a moment. Every nonsensical suggestion he'd heard from eastern Europe. "Putin's pre-rigged the election, it's been done for months. Poland's quietly paying off terrorists. One of my men swears he saw Sherlock in Prague. The Yugoslav mess is on the edge of upheaval and the slavs’ll do anything to get an ally to support."

"Hmm. The election has a seed of truth, Yugoslavia has been a mess for years," Mycroft steepled his fingers. "Had your man ever seen Sherlock before?" There was not even a flicker of pain in Mycroft's expression at the mention of his brother’s name.

"Moriarty had him tag Sherlock back in the day." He was working to not calling him Jim anymore. "But I try to not foster insanity."

"Mm." Mycroft moved on. "Tell me more about the Polish terrorists," he asked discarding the topic of his brother.

Seb closed his eyes. "Strange little thing I was picking at. I think they have blackmail material on the government. I'll find out."   
"I would be interested," Mycroft said. "There are other stories coming out of that region. There is an individual currently described colourfully as the Arctic Fox who is surfacing."

"Disenfranchised gangster. Do you want more on him?" He gave him a hard look.

"There are rumours that he is epitomizing the colourful idiom of punching above his weight. He's involved in something bigger than he is prepared to handle and it would be useful to know what before his employer realizes he is a liability." Mycroft met his look with a level cool stare.

"Are you implying something, Mycroft?" He cocked an eyebrow at the man. Son of a bitch.

Mycroft gave him a quizzical look. "What do you believe I am implying?"

He stuck his tongue in his teeth, and took another sip of coffee. "Nothing. Consider it investigated."

Mycroft didn't insult him by explaining further, at least. It was like watching his skivvies get run up a flagpole. "I have an avenue I believe would be profitable for you to explore," Mycroft said handing him over a dossier. "This man is an arms dealer you might recognize. His organization is in the process of locating and securing some weapons Grade radioactive materials."

"Classy," Seb murmured, flipping open the folder. "Intent purposeful, or just generally interested?"

"Logically it would make sense for you to appropriate the goods. I can...again provide you with a buyer," he said. "So. Yes, with intent."

"Duly noted." He inclined his head slightly. "Is there anything else I can do for you? Unfortunately, I have an appointment I'd like to make on the other side of town."

"No, keep me apprised of developments," Mycroft replied. "And any further rumours if you would." 

And that it seemed was all that Mycroft Holmes actually wanted. It was almost anticlimactic, as the expected trap or double cross had failed to materialize. He kept waiting for it to all go sideways, and the man kept quietly feeding him jobs to pick up. Complicated jobs, some of them. He looked at the arms dealer folder for a moment more, before presenting it back to the man. He'd make a few phone calls while he drove, and start making the connections to connections to connections to get the goods.

"I'll take care of that. And, of course, you know how to find me." He finished the coffee, and started to stand, still faintly wary.

"Of course," Mycroft replied, matching his tone quite precisely. Fucking mimics, him, his brother, Jim, pretending to be human. "Send my regards to John." He looked down at some paperwork clearly feeling the meeting was over. And not a threat, or dig or anything had occurred. It was all disturbingly cordial and efficient.

Clearly he was a royal fucking mess. He frowned for a moment, then nodded and turned to leave. "Will do. Have a good evening." It left him feeling oddly rattled as he escorted himself out of the place, and headed for his car. 

What kind of fucking head case couldn't even manage a business meeting without getting wound up?

It was something to roll around his head as he tried to not consider this other brand of stupidity he was engaging in. Seb kept his focus as he drove. The phone calls could wait until later, and it was easier to blank his mind. He stuck to the mechanics as he parked, got out, and headed to the woman's office. He greeted her secretary, taking his gloves off as he sat down.

He was fairly sure that showing up in a therapist's quiet waiting room with blood under his fingernails was some sort of. Sign. Seb was sure he'd scrubbed the fuck out of his hands, and he'd worn leather gloves just in case for the meeting with Mycroft. Now he was going to have to burn the gloves and get another pair, because if it was caught under his thumbnail, it was probably up in the seam of the gloves because they fit just that well.

Well, bugger. He edged it out with his teeth, and fished out another cigarette absently. It wasn't bad -- he'd gotten down to about half a pack a day, and most of that was in the pauses of his day, the low quiet points, not the bad moments. Jim'd had him smoking like a fucking junkie, pack and a half, two, three packs a day. Jim had made him, all of his problems, amplified, worse. Hadn't made his problems, not a quarter of them, but he made them all itch excitedly.

He’d made them *sing*, and resonate to Jim’s harmony. Now, it'd been eight months, seven of that with John's particular brand of tolerance, and it was time to see if professional help was any sort of help at all.

John carried on as if the issues he knew would scare off anyone else were nothing. Those issues which had convinced him that the only person that ever could or would put up with his own brand of crazy was Jim. He just looked at Seb sometimes and shrugged. Occasionally he shouted, and that was a sight to behold, but generally it was nothing insurmountable. And that just freaked the _hell_ out of him.

"Mr. Moran?" the therapist had come out to greet him. "I'm Dr Ella Thompson. Please feel free to call me Ella, if you are comfortable with that."

"Right." He shook her hand firmly, cigarette balanced in the corner of his mouth. "Dr. Watson recommended I see you."

"Always good to have someone by recommendation." She led him into a very comfortable looking room, with a large French doors that looked out into a pleasant garden. "He possibly also recommended me as I specialize in post-combat therapy. Please make yourself comfortable. First thing's first, are you here because you want to be or because others have pressured you to be here?"

He stood for a moment, looking out at the garden before he sat down in what he assumed was the patient's chair. It was a bit short, low to the floor for him, so he stretched his legs out. "Bit of both. I'd like to sort off get my life together."

"And here is the first therapist question of the day..." She had a warm voice, which was curiously soothing. “What, to you, is a "together life"? I'd like to know what we're aiming for."

He leaned back in the chair, trying to pull up an answer that wasn't pat and nothing at all real. "I, uh. I take stupid risks for the sake of stupid risks. I, uh. There are a couple of things that catch me up, and I can't get past them. "

She smiled at him. "Okay, that's a place to start from. I have to say this, although it should be a given. What happens here is all confidential. Sometimes you might feel uncomfortable with our discussions, so feel free to express your discomfort. Shouting I can most certainly deal with. Would you like to tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Moran... or would you like me to call you something else?"

"Seb." He sat up a little taller, straighter, trying to work out where to start. "I, uh. Was an infantry Colonel. Served five tours in Afghanistan, and before that I'd done a tour in Kosovo. Couple other peace-keeping stints, nothing major. Was discharged from the Army, after I nearly beat a... An afghan national police captain to death. They didn't quite know what to do with me." 

"How did you come to join the military, Seb?" she asked not even batting an eyelid at that revelation. No condemnatory look, or uncomfortable shift in her seat. It was...well, refreshing in a way. 

"It was the sort of life I wanted to live. I did a lot of camping and fighting as a kid. I went to college, and joined the junior officer program there." He rubbed at the side of his jaw. "Then they taught me how to be a sniper. And I was damn good at it. I was always a better soldier than I was an officer."

"What was the difference between the two?" She seemed genuinely curious and Seb could see why John had recommended her. It was just easy and relaxed to talk with her. And he was sure Mycroft had checked her out. Probably rifled her paperwork in the evening for light reading material.

"Self control, I suppose. I liked to lead my men from their midst. Never could appropriately distance myself from them. Never had any discipline problems with them, liked to teach them things. But that's more non-commissioned officer stuff than actual officer stuff. My attitude about my men was never right."

"Whose definition of right were you working to?" she queried and then added. "Try and think of a specific person.” He paused having to think about that.

"Doctrine?" He scoffed, and closed his eyes for a moment. "I, uh. My father, I suppose." 

"What did he believe was 'right'?" she asked and somehow within five minutes she had slid her way like a knife into an area of his life he didn't like to think about.

Ever.

He bit his tongue between his teeth for a moment, and didn't answer. "Rather not talk about him."

"What would you prefer to talk about?" She let him get away with it but no doubt that was being noted down for future sessions.

He didn't know. He didn't know what he wanted to talk about. He ran a hand over his face. "I don't know. I, uh. Don't think about myself a lot."

"Then tell me about one of your best memories?" she said encouragingly.

"I've got a few. I try to make the most out of every day. I, uh..." He looked to the garden for a moment. "I winged a tiger once, and she made a break for it. I had to chase her down through the jungle, got tangled up with her and slit her throat with my knife." He was still rubbing at the edge if his jaw with his thumb. "I seem to be trending that way today. Lots of other best memories, but..."

"What was it about that memory that makes it one of your best? What is attractive in it?" she asked watching his motion.

"It was thrilling, like nothing else I've ever done." And he'd killed a lot. He'd killed just that morning, and was trying to not think about the blood under his nails. "I killed a tiger with my hands. Not many men can say they've done that." 

He paused, and added, "She was a beautiful creature. Still have her hide up on the wall."

"Was it the challenge, the winning of the challenge, the doing something else that no one else could do that hit the spot or something else?"

He stopped the motion against his jaw a little self-consciously, setting his hands on his knees -- for at least as long as he could remember to keep them there. "I don't know. Maybe all of the above."

She didn't push then. "Then how about a bad memory? Pick a bad memory that you feel comfortable sharing?"

He didn't want to share any of them. Maybe it was just time to leave. Maybe it was all a shit idea, and he'd just slink back to the flat and see if John had already had dinner. Except John'd *look* at him and probably guess right off that he'd gone and left early, and he wouldn't say anything, but it'd be there. Sebastian Moran, royal bloody fuckup. He sat back in the chair, rubbing at the edge of his jaw again before he caught himself. 

"We'd just moved to fucking Afghanistan. My father was with the diplomatic mission, and no boarding schools for the kids, no. He broke tradition and dragged the lot of us with him. My mother, Becks -- my sister -- Richard, my older brother and me. I came home from, Christ, some soccer game, I don't remember anymore. I was eight. Went upstairs to the room I shared with my brother. Big house, spacious, but father was concerned about the soviets and we sort of didn't take the whole place up. Opened the closet door to throw my bag in, and there was Richard. He'd done a necktie up to the, the post that we used to hang clothes off of. Only he'd hung himself up, and just, I don't know. Lifted his feet off the ground and let gravity do the rest."

"That must have been very traumatic for you," Dr Thompson murmured and it didn't sound dismissive or fake. "Did you ever find out why?"

"No. Three years later, my mother did herself in with pills. Never worked that out, either. I'm... I've mostly stayed close with my sister. We go 'round to hers once a month or so. When everyone's work schedules line up. That's sort of new." New and important to him, in an odd way. He had his sister back, and she was being careful about his fucked-up-ness in a way that he could respect those times she twinged something.

"How old were you when that happened?" she asked and he found himself trying to figure out what difference that made, but they were wandering territory unfamiliar to him.

"Eleven." He quirked an eyebrow at her, because, honestly, what the fuck did it matter? He could probably pull out something bizarre for every year of his life, and so could every other fucking poor sod on the planet. It wasn't like he was special fucked up. He would've been fucked up with or without it.

"Are you close to your sister?" He had been, back then. It had been them seemingly on their own, their father... he wasn't sure what the hell he had been doing except making a bad situation worse. He had only been dimly aware at the time but now he could see that Becks was so focused, so capable at planning because she had to be that way for them both.

"I was, never mind that she's five years older than me, angry little brother hanging on to her. Then she went off to college, full ride, because she's fucking brilliant and deserved to get away. Came back on weekends." It probably sounded random, and it was. It was whatever he could pull up, because he didn't know why any of it would matter. "She can read me like a book."

"Sisters have a tendency to do that," she agreed with a faint smile. "You said 'we' when you talked about visiting her once a month. Who is 'we'? What do you do when you are there?"

"Just normal stuff. Play with the kids, talk with my sister and her husband. It's just quiet, lot of sitting in the backyard shooting the breeze. My niece and nephew are great kids -- They're wanna be bird watchers, so it's probably not the best use of sniping techniques but I've been teaching them how to be still enough that they'll get real close." He worked his jaw for a moment. "We. Is John. My life sort of went to shit the same time his did, that mess with Holmes, and. He needed a flat mate to help with the rent. I needed to not see Jim's fucking shit all over our flat. Worked pretty well."

"And how would you describe your relationship with John," she asked with a faint smile. Swearing obviously didn’t bother her.

Which was a good thing, or else she would've escorted him to the door already. "Easy. Tempering. It's different than what I'm been used to. It's very, hey, we're out of milk, oh, there's a good movie on, yeah, and I’ll cook. Sort of." He gestured vaguely, knowing that it wasn't helping matters at all.

"Flat mates who don't argue? That has to be a first." She smiled again. "Have you argued with John at all?"

"Usually when I've done something daft. I put myself at risk at work sometimes."

"It sounds like he is protective of your safety," she commented. "Why do you think he is that way?"

"He lost Sherlock. I'm a pretty shitty life raft, but." He shrugged his shoulders loosely, arms crossed.

"You characterize yourself as a stand in?"

"Yeah." He gave another shrug. "Doesn't bother me. I, It’s great. Stand in or not."

"What do you do now, then, Seb?" she asked and he could almost see her making notes mentally.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Because how did he answer that? Honestly, dishonestly, and if he lied how did he mask it while still hitting all of the highpoints? He struggled for a moment, quiet before he answered. It was risky, but. "Fuck it. I'm a crime lord."

"And what does that involve?" She didn't even miss a beat and it made him wonder how many crime lords she treated. Had she been a therapist recommended by Mycroft, or just one completely undermined by the man? It seemed the sort of thing he would do.

"Managing operations, killing the odd corrupt actor, handling some of the larger operations personally, a little sniping." He rubbed at the edge of his jaw again. "I like the work."

"What is it that appeals about the work?" Dr. Thompson asked, sipping at her own glass of water casually.

"It keeps me on my toes, and I'm good at it. There's a lot to manage. Staff, pay, movement of money."

"I see. I could say that those elements are also common to more legal professions..." She gave the statement an almost questioning tone.

"Jim needed a chief of staff. That's how I started." His mouth was a tight line, and he was fighting the urge to leave. "And I like violence."

"How would you describe your relationship was like with Jim?" she asked picking up on the mention.

"He was a manic little fucker." He shifted again, re-crossing his legs. It hurt to come to the edge of all of those memories, years and years of them stacked up like bodies ready to be burnt. He just couldn’t make himself do it. Let go, burn them, any of it. "And he fucking shot himself in the mouth, and left me."

"You seem angry about that..." She left the statement dangling for him to pick up.

"I am." He shook his head a little, looking around for an ash tray. "We had plans. He just -- that wasn't in the plan. And he fucking left me."

His therapist sat for a moment letting the silence stretch out and take out some of the heat that had flared from his anger surge. "Did you think he would ever do that to you?"

"No." He refolded his arms. "We were partners. I... No."

She was watched his body language and evidently judged this to be a difficult subject. The lady got a gold star for that. "Well, Seb," she said. "What I'd like to do now is run through some of the assessment tools we have, and gather some additional information there. We have quite a range of topics to talk about, if you are willing to return and work on things. You have complex emotions surrounding many things in your life -- your relationships, your family, you sense of self and purpose. You disconnect from these things to protect yourself and to protect them and it's not the sort of thing that can become un-ravelled overnight."

"I've just... Had a hard time of it lately. So. I think I'll be coming back." He tried to force himself to relax, sitting there. "I'd like to keep what I have with john."

"Having a goal is half the battle. Do you remember your dreams Seb?" she queried, getting out a folder that had what appeared to be Rorschach blots in them. She didn't show them just yet, pausing waiting for his answer.

"What, surviving doesn't count?" He quirked a smile at her.

"Only if it's a goal rather than an accident," she replied smiling back. "If you do remember any dreams this week, then make a note of them if you would. Now, let’s just run through these. Just say what you see..."

He shook his head slightly, not sure what good any of it would do, but fuck. Fuck, he was trying and that was the best he could ask for.

* * *

The flat had been lonely for the last three weeks.

Sometimes -- well, most of the time -- John forgot that Seb was essentially playing the part of Moriarty's stand in. He worked weekends roughly when John did, nights sometimes, but most of the time he got up early and managed to get back home before John did. He alternated being the web-weaver behind the wall of phone-calls, texts and laptop work to being the strongman, both parts of the game, but it didn't seem that bad from John's point of view. He mostly didn't think about it. He didn't think about a lot of things, until Seb left the country with a handful of passports, his rifle and a rucksack full of suits. It hadn't helped that the last thing they'd done that night had been a slow lazy fuck, the sort of thing that felt normal for their routines.

Everything had been silent since then, no contact. And John watching the news occasionally and wondering a bit detachedly about it all. Was the embassy bombing in Lima Seb's work? The mass series of deaths in the Liberian political opposition? Or was it some small, under reported thing?

It left him feeling stretched and aching inside again, and unwilling to return to the flat until he'd worked more than his shift. Mrs. Hudson nattered on helpfully, but... It hadn't helped before and it didn't help then.

He was fast getting a reputation, too. The nurses were giving him commiserating looks, as if sure he was suffering some sort of romantic set back. He did get quite a few cups of tea made for him out of the situation. His leg was screwing him over again -- which might’ve been due to the longer hours at work and he was trying to do as the physio suggested and work it a little more by walking longer distances to build up muscles.

He took the tube home rather than a taxi. The stairs out of the underground were a bit of a killer, but he started on a brisk walk. It was a bit over cast and chilly, but he tried walking as briskly as he could, looking at his phone, finding there was still no reply text from Seb. He was starting to think about going to Mycroft, to find out if he had a clue where he was. Three weeks. Jesus, three weeks.

He understood needing plausible deniability, that the less he knew, the better. But even Irene had managed to harass Sherlock with random little non informational texts. He didn't need to know what Seb was doing, just that he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere because he carried on like a damn second lieutenant sometimes.

Three weeks. Yeah, maybe it was time to look Mycroft up, before the nurses on duty started to do more than give him sympathetic looks and cups of tea like he was some lost puppy again, not a veteran who'd enjoyed doing things that would've made them flinch.

Closer to home now, so maybe he could warm up and fend off Mrs. Hudson. No, he wouldn't even have to do that, because she had a more brisk social life as a retiree than he did.

John looked up, past the street lights, up to the polluted by light, glowing sky, bright against the dark. His situational awareness was going to shit, too. He needed to stay alert -- not because he was scared, but because it made him feel better.

Not that it made him feel better when he glanced up a half block from the flat, and saw a figure on the edge of the roof, and a faint glow of a lit cigarette.

It was a visceral fear and adrenalin reaction. A white hot burn in the pit of his stomach and then ice that froze him temporarily to the spot, standing looking up with his phone in his hand. He knew that silhouette, he knew that was Seb standing on the edge of a goddamn building... he had to get there, stop him. Who knew what had happened in that time away, but why else would you stand on the edge of a building? All there was then was an urgency to get there immediately, to run, to claw his way up there to stop it like he hadn't managed to stop Sherlock. It was a completely irrational compulsion that bypassed the logic in his brain completely.

He wasn't even sure how to get up to the roof, didn't think there was actually an easy access, which meant, right, there was an open window at the front. Christ, fuck, there was _no_ way he could climb up like that.

John had to think, he had to think when all his mind was doing was screaming to get there immediately before he had to have another bloody body smashed and lifeless on the pavement in front of him. He knew that Seb's family had been decimated by suicide, that he’d been ruminating on it. It... no, there had to be a way. That area of the roof was flat, so there had to be an access up there, somehow. Behind the building, maybe a fire-escape or something. But this was London... No, Mrs. Hudson would have been up to date on any fire regs. 

Especially when Sherlock had been there. He hurriedly limped around to the grotty alleyway behind the Baker street block. There were businesses in the buildings and they had to adhere to fire regs. He hunted around desperately until a little ways along he found a grotty looking fire-ladder rusted into the wall, and without a thought started up it.

There was nothing to do but hurry, rushing to get there, climbing up up up and damn the rust because Seb was standing on the edge of the roof. He wouldn't be too late, not this time, not... 

There he was, still standing there, looking casual, finally turning around. He had something in his left hand, and tape over the bridge of his nose. "John?"

"Come away from the edge, Seb," he said aware the words that should be soothing and non-threatening were sharp with panic and snapped like an order. He couldn't stop himself. "Don't you, don't you fucking DARE do this...”

He did take a step away from the edge, towards John, posture bent a little, squinting at John. Whatever he had in his hand looked, John wasn't sure. It folded in half, and he was wearing fast rope gloves? “What'm I not supposed to dare to do?"

"Jump, why else would you be standing on the edge of the roof?" he said getting closer. He just wanted to grab him, or punch him one or the other.

He had one eyebrow up as he took another step towards John. "Observation point? I'm fucking comfortable up here? Practicing my urban assault? I didn't know I needed a reason to stand on the roof!"

"No, because that would be like goddamn common sense," he snapped out, grabbing him by the arm which was a really stupid thing to do because tensions were so high they were practically in space.

"And hello to you, too." Up close, Seb looked worn thin, sunburnt, bruised and disturbed, not quite there in the eyes, which was all John needed to have his fears confirmed just then.

He hesitated a long moment, unable to let go of him in case he might make a sudden run for the edge. Or… something. "Please come in," he said trying to stop his heart from pounding so hard that the sound was roaring in his ears. He was dimly aware this might count as some sort of panic attack.

He squinted at John, and took a step into John’s personal space, lowering whatever he was holding. His breathing was a little uneven. "What's going on in your head?"

"In mine? What about you?" John gestured. "You're standing on the edge of the roof of a building? What the hell happened... what are you thinking? I'm NOT going to watch anyone else kill themselves!"

Now he jerked away from John, and John didn't let go of his arm. "I'm not trying to fucking kill myself, I was up here watching the neighbourhood and fucking around with a new set of ropes I picked up!"

"What the hell am I meant to think? You haven't answered my texts? I haven't seen you for over three weeks and I had no idea what had happened to you," he said. "You could have been killed and then I see you up here and... Fuck.” All he could see was the body falling faster and faster. His grip tightened unconsciously.

"Oh, Christ." Seb stepped in close, sliding an arm around his back. "Okay. Okay, right. Right. Hey, easy. Easy. If I ever, I mean, I'd use a gun but I'm sort of attached to smoking, drinking and sex, and those are really hard to do when you're missing pieces of your skull."

His gun. Holy shit, he hadn't even thought about Seb’s guns! "Shit. You...you are a bastard you know that? That's meant to make me feel better? You're meant to say you're not thinking of suicide, not that you would do it differently." The arm was reassuring though. "I was...this fucking close to trying to punch you out to get you inside."

"Yeah, I'm a bastard." Seb's arm's tightened a little, and he gave a shaky exhale, leaning into John more. He smelled like airport, fresh smoke and heat and aloe, bringing his other arm around John. "You can still hit me if you want, but if you could give my nose a skip I'd appreciate it. Had to head butt a customs agent in Argentina."

"I would, but you'd probably enjoy it," he tried to say sternly. "Jesus I need a drink. I missed you and you just scared the shit out of me." And John knew it was his issues but he felt like he'd been torn into pieces and stuck inexpertly back to pieces. If he stopped, he saw the repeating images, falling, falling...

It was all there behind his eyes, only he was imagining Seb taking a header off the roof, there, live, mingled with the jangle of Sherlock's body there on the cement, eyes staring openly at him while the world went sideways. "Okay. Didn't mean to scare the shit out of you." He took a step forward, backing John back a step. "I suppose we'll take the ladder like normal people."

"My leg is going to hate me," he said. It had blanked from his awareness as he had been focused on Seb. "Okay, I'm... I'm going inside." He hesitated from saying sorry because he didn’t know that he was yet.

Seb pulled back a little, and then stopped himself. "I'll go with you. Let me go down the ladder first, you look..." He didn't know what he looked like, if Seb said it.

"Fine." It was curt, but he felt shaky and oddly disturbed as if the world had rattled him somehow and he was helpless to stop it.

"Sure." Seb let John pull away a little, but he was staring hard at John when he did. Paused for a second, and then leaned back to grab the rope. John didn't really have the space to feel like an asshole, because Seb *was* a bastard.

He let him go first and his legs were like limp noodles going down the ladder, and his hands were trembling. Fuck. This was not how he'd imagined Seb coming home.

John'd diagnose it as shock if someone came into the casualty like this. Panic attack and shock. He tried really hard to keep his head down so the neighbours wouldn’t feel the need to shout at him because all he was fit for was...nothing. Nothing at all, he wasn't fit for anything. If Seb had been suicidal, that encounter would have seen him dead immediately.

He was just useless.

"Okay." Seb had an arm over his shoulders again, scanning around them as they made their way back to the front door, the actual way back in. It was slow going, and his leg was killing him. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, sorry," he practically mumbled. "I might have over reacted. I was worried about you. I was going to go tackle Mycroft tomorrow to find out what happened."

"Been playing mercenary in Latin America." Fingers on his shoulder rubbed a little as they edged through the alley. "And I stuck out like a bloody sore thumb the whole time. Bloody tall pale white bloke, oh, wonder what he's up to. Can't even tan right." 

"Yeah, you look like you're peeling," John answered absently. He took a few deep breaths. "Right. Right okay, I want to hear what you've been doing while drinking and then you and I are going to bed and you are not allowed out of the bed."

Seb was quiet as they rounded up the stairs, slowly, fishing his keys out of his pockets absently. "You haven't been okay."

"What are you talking about?" He was dealing with things. Dealing with day to day life, holding down a job.

"You're the stable one," Seb pointed out, locking the front door behind them, and shifting the heavy rope looped over his shoulder. "Not me."

It was true up to a point. "Yeah, and?" He wasn't allowed to have problems? Seb really believed that he didn’t have any? Jesus, just because he didn't have the whole bat-shit crazy vibe didn't mean he was suddenly okay, because he didn't shout about it. It was a miracle they managed to make it up the stairs.

"No, just. Wake up call, need to pull my weight." He rubbed a hand at the side of his jaw as he started towards John from the door. "I didn't mean to -- I just don't want to put you at risk."

"I'm not the one at risk," he refuted and headed for his chair. "I'm fine. I'm not the one in danger."

The ropes ended up dropped to the floor, and Seb started to shrug out of his jacket. "Like hell. You saw me up there and thought I was going to do a swan dive like Sherlock did. Didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but..." He wanted to say it was a reasonable assumption but he ended up opening his mouth and shutting it again, unable to find words. 

"Have I looked, have I." Seb stopped, looking like he was struggling for words. "I know I'm fucked up, but I haven't been suicidal. Sad, a little shaky, sure. But I'm not suicidal. Just want to establish that. I'm not going anywhere if I can help it. I'm not going to *leave*."

"You were standing on the edge of the goddamn roof, Seb," he said in exasperation. "What was I meant to think? I know, I know I'm not Jim okay? I get that and I know I screwed things up for you. Everyone warned me, you did, Mycroft, even Sherlock, you were all telling me what was going to happen and I couldn't get it together enough to stop it."

"No. No, you're not Jim. You're, fucking god, not Jim. Do you know what it's like to look someone in the eyes and just. Nothing. Like there was some fucking monster lurking there in the shadows, but other than that it might as well have been marbles." His jaw clenched, and he was pacing a little. "I just. Fuck. Can we not bring Jim into this? You didn't screw anything up, I'm just sorry I couldn't unknot myself enough to do something to help Sherlock. If I knew now, if I. I'd go back and shoot Jim and call it all off and just let you be happy. Because if I’m going to be fucking miserable that Jim’s dead, I would’ve liked to have a reason to feel _bad_ about it."

John found himself staring at Seb. 

"This has gone way off track." He needed to get a grip, because that was what he did. He was the solid one in a relationship, the reliable one. "You got some of the good alcohol left?"

"Fresh from duty free." Seb didn’t move from where he was standing in the middle of the room. "I uh." There was a vague seeming moment. "You're clearly messed up. Which, is fine. You don't have to be not messed up. Just. Let me help." Oh yeah, offered the sunburnt mercenary who'd been up on the roof for fun.

"Fine. Help then. Help by letting me know you're alive, stop taking unnecessary risks. I'm not Jim, I do give a shit if you're hurt and not because it turns me on," John said eventually.

And he wasn't sure what to do about that, because Seb was standing there with a stupid look on his face, frowning. "Okay." He lingered, finally starting towards John's chair. "C'mon."

"What?" He said making a conscious effort to build himself back up. 

"Sometimes I feel like I'm ruining you just by being here." He put a hand out, though, to help John up. "C'mon. Shower, then I'll bring sandwiches to bed."

"That's...just idiotic," he replied. "Fine, shower it is." He could clear his head; he could pull himself together and apparently stop shivering. He hadn't even noticed he was, even if it was faint, but maybe Seb had.

Maybe that was why Seb was walking him towards the shower, expression oddly set and firm. "Good. You look like you had a long day, I'm 18 hours of travelling crap, and then I climbed up on the roof, and I know. I know. Stupid."

"No. I guess I over reacted," he half mumbled as an apology. "Sorry Seb." He'd treated him like shit, completely irrationally. He headed in to the shower, stripping off absently.

"No, no, I mean. Really, who the fuck gets home and climbs on the roof?" He closed the door behind them, and leaned against it, looking thoughtful before he started to pry his boots off. "I can understand how you got there."

Looked like he was going to get company. Well that was a definite plus. "Possibly it's not everyone else’s first conclusion," he conceded.

"Still. Who the fuck gets on the roof this late at night?" He laughed a little jaggedly, unbuttoning his shirt. "We maybe need to uh. Work on the talking thing."

"Oh god, really?" John knew he sounded horrified. "I'm, there are some things I can't seem to get out." Still.

"Me, too. Just." He dropped his shirt on the floor, while John turned the water on to warm a little. "We can talk around it. I'll try to... probably _won't_ have to make a trip like that for a while. It's just hard when I haven't hired another me. I don't have anyone to send off to do my dirty work."

"What were you doing, going shirtless?" he asked catching sight of Seb’s peeling back. "Looks like I should take you in for leprosy or something.”

"Laugh it up." He started to unbuckle his belt, sliding his trousers down. At least he hadn't burnt all of his skin off. "I was blending in with the local roughs. Got the work done at least. Which. I won't tell you about, but. I'll try to not be the asshole that just disappears."

"That is definitely something to work on," he said and stepped under the water. It felt good to do so, the thoughts being purged away.

Or at least, the hot water gave him something else to think about. He never wanted to feel that heart racing fear again, never wanted to get caught up like that again, but. Not wanting it didn't do much for solving it. Only he wasn't sure what would work. If there was anything that he could do about it. But Seb was back.

He was a sunburnt asshole, but it was good to have him back. 

"I'm a shitty live-in," Seb reaffirmed as he stepped into the shower with John, grabbing up the soap. "But I missed you."

"Yeah, you were probably more distracted by running for your life, or whatever," he said relishing the hot water. It was distracting, almost as distracting as seeing the naked body in front of him that he really wanted to touch. No reason not to.

Nothing to worry about, not negative repercussions. Hell, Seb suggested John could do really horrible things to him the way other men suggested a cup of coffee. "Avoiding police in Peru. You would've had fun if you'd come along." Oh god, the embassy bombing. The embassy bombing, but Seb was there in the shower with him, sliding soapy hands over John's shoulders with a touch that felt reverent. "What the hell, did you stop eating?"

"Of course not," he said automatically and then had to think with a faint frown. "It was just too much hard work to really bother," he said lamely unable to think of when he had last cooked. "Mrs. Hudson brought things up sometimes." Soap was a good distraction.

Seb leaned in, pressing his mouth against John's temple. The water running over them was nice. "Christ. Sandwiches it is, then. You feel good, though."

"You feel *really* good," John replied realizing how hungry he was for intimate contact. His hands were roaming freely already.

Seb always felt good, lean and strong and soft in a couple of places. It wasn't showy muscle, just functional. Seb laughed quietly, and backed John up against the wall, hands moving to grip hard at his hips. "So you like that?"

"You can't have forgotten what I like in three weeks?" John replied. "Yeah, I want that...Now would be good." The firmness of grip was reassuring, real in some way and he needed that.

He needed, wanted grounding contact, wanted to be sure that something wasn't a hallucination on the cusp of not-real. Seb mouthed a kiss to his jaw, lingering for a moment, leaving marks on his hips and keeping him pinned in place. It was hard to guess what was coming next, until he dropped to his knees under the water.

"Oh, fuck." He really wouldn't last long, and nor did he want to. It was a definite need that made him hard almost immediately.

Seb didn't waste time, leaving a bite against his hip bone before taking him in deep enough that John was sure he would've been choking. It was an intense sensation, his cock engulfed in heat and friction and suction, so deep he knew he was fucking Seb’s throat more than his mouth. He banged his head on the back of the shower cubicle, but didn't really notice because all he could feel was the amazing pleasure and need from having his cock sucked by an expert. 

There was nothing to do but thrust into the suction and ride it out, the feeling of Seb's fingers digging into his skin. While he fucked Seb’s _throat_. Just the thought, the sight of the way Seb bobbed and twisted to make it work, eyes half-closed in concentration, against the water coming down over them. He really didn't last long at all before he came, his knees almost wobbly with the force of it. He had missed Seb, really missed him and the period of absence had made him realize how much Seb was doing for him.

It wasn't so much that he was there, present -- he did a lot of subtle goading John along. Not that John could tell what Seb got out of the arrangement. He let his fingers tangle in Seb's hair while the other man stayed on his knees, breathing a little hard, mouthing kisses against John's hip, his thigh. "Mhmn. Much better welcome back."

"After food I’m going to give you your own welcome home," John promised, his eyes closed for a moment. "Anything you want."

"Anything?" Seb was bizarrely hopeful sounding as he leaned into John. It made John wonder what he'd just gotten himself into.

The hell. "Anything I can give you," he promised. "I'll tell you if I don't think I can."

The laugh against his akin, before Seb got to his feet unsteadily. "Okay. So, where were we -- soap?"

"Actually washing before the water runs cold," John agreed and then actually cleaned up and helped Seb to clean up, and got out of the shower, towelling off while Seb made comments about his ass. 

The sandwich seemed a lot tastier than most of the other food he'd had during the three weeks and he went back and had several, even though he was still in a bathrobe and it was a little bit fresh wandering around the flat. It was good that everything felt sharp that way, biting with sensation. The earlier promised drinks materialized, too, though John was half sure Seb had made them a little weak. 

It was okay, some of the need to blot things out or burn the shock away had gone. He was content to sip it rather than gulp it down having driven the every cycling image to the back of his mind. Seb was here, right now. That was important, and would always be important.

Unexpected, but. He sacked out beside John when he finally lingered long enough to sit on the sofa. "So." He took a sip of what was possibly very expensive rum and very cheap coke.

"Mmm?" he said and then felt he needed to apologies. "Look, I'm sorry about...earlier." 

Seb shook his head, taking another sip, head tilted a little. "It was sort if daft of me. I was antsy."

"Yeah, I guess we both hit antsy at the same time," John said. "Made me realize how much having you here...well how important it is."

"I'm not going anywhere. I told you, when this all. When." He was quiet for a moment. "You'll need a restraining order to get rid of me." Seb leaned his shoulder into John, looking comfortable as he swirled his glass. "Does this count as the very much boycotted talking about things?"

"It's as close as we're going to get to it," John admitted and sat back. "I'm not going anywhere either." He cleared his throat. "Okay we can stop talking about it now."

"Good." Seb itched at his own arm absently. "This is going to be one hideous tan when it heals. Hospital been quiet?"

"A few busy sessions. Weekends in Casualty go that way." John glanced at him frowning a little. Huh. Seb looked a little tense, in an eager way as if he wanted to say something but he wasn't sure what. "So uh, picked out your reward?" he asked tossing that into the ring to see if that was the source.

He licked his bottom lip. "Yeah, that's sort of." John watched Seb's eyes drop a little, lingering on John's mouth for a moment. "I'd just like to be taken down a notch. It's been a while."

"Down a notch?" What would that involve? He wasn't sure, it wasn't the sort of thing he normally did. "Yeah, uh... Gonna need more information."

Which was the part that Seb sucked at. His mouth twisted a little, and he looked at the ceiling for a second. "I suppose normal people would call it being made to submit."

"Made to?" He wasn't sure if he could really hurt Seb if that was what he wanted but Sherlock had rambled about things after meeting Irene and they had done research for that particular case. He was not completely unaware.

"I usually go down fighting." Seb's mouth twitched and he added with a smile, "Actually, the more I go on, the worse it sounds. I was going to say more, but uh. It just goes right downhill."

"No, tell me," John urged. He wanted to be able to do it, even if it wasn't what they usually did.

"No, uh." The next laugh was quiet, nervous, but genuine sounding to John's ears. Seb did a lot of laughing, enough that John could tell. "I like it when it hurts."

"Yeah, don't think that is a secret," he said wryly. Could he do it? He could do something but it might not be what Seb was used to. Overpowering Seb... Yeah, not going to happen unless he had been prepared, but he could use the handcuffs Sherlock had lifted from Lestrade and kept in his room. Irene had taken to sending Sherlock the odd gift or two, but he could use some rope or something for ankles. 

"No, no so much." And Seb'd been with Jim for three years, which -- for someone who wanted to be taken down a notch, that was like going from an expert to a rank amateur, never mind that from John's point of view the idea of going through with that on either side was sort of horrifying. "I'm still saving that one for if Dr. Thompson ever looks bored." He leaned into John, pressing his mouth against John's neck.

He smiled a little. "You know, if you want, I can try. Something. It might be a bit disappointing in comparison, but..."

"Or, I just got used to sex that really edged close to rape. Maybe I've gotten used to being conscious and enjoying you." He spent an awful lot of time kissing John, lingering close, just feeling him. Sliding a hand inside of John's bathrobe, the fabric of Seb's t-shirt a little damp as he leaned against John.

“I don't want to rape you Seb," John said but turned to look at him. "But I probably could make you scream in a good way...if I really tried." There, Seb's pupils dilated almost immediately.

"I'm up for trying." Seb offered it softly, looking at John with his pupils blown wide in anticipation. After all, it'd been months, and months, at least. John was pretty sure Seb hadn't gone anywhere else for what he needed.

He wasn't sure why he hadn’t gone anywhere. Seb was a bloke’s bloke, and he didn’t really think the man’d have any compunctions against tom-catting around. Maybe it was a risk issue. "Uh, you got any… rope?" he asked and that was like a shot of drugs to the other man.

Particularly since Seb was up and gone, his empty glass left on the table. Yeah, that was a daft question -- of course he had rope. "Should I just. Put it in your room?" And himself in there, yeah, maybe it was time to get off the sofa.

"Why don't you get out anything you think might be useful?" John said getting up. "I might get... experimental." He owed it to Seb to try. He wasn't completely averse to the idea, but he felt more pleasure himself at the thought of teasing than hurting Seb.

"Promises." He watched Seb disappear into the room -- Sherlock's room -- that he mostly used for storage now. Kept his clothes there, and ropes, and guns and god knew what else. He picked up Seb's glass, and meandered over to the kitchen to splash water into them. The rum bottle was capped and blue label; it looked hysterically out of place beside the empty can of Tesco cola. Maybe something to stick up on his blog, as a hello, still alive, not much to write about post.

"I want you naked and in my room in about 30 seconds," he called out, smiling to himself. It amused him greatly and it was just as well he'd come already, otherwise they wouldn't get far.

He fished his phone out of the pocket of his robe, and took a picture, before abandoning the phone on the counter. Harry hadn't made any illusions to the family alcoholism recently, or addictive tendencies. Really, getting addicted to *people* was probably more dangerous than liquor. And being addicted to other people wasn't anything Harry had a problem with. 

He gave Seb a full minute, and just waited, taking his time pacing back to his bedroom. The heat of the water had taken some of the pain out of his leg, but he still didn't have a good head for planning ahead just then. He was still fucked up from the roof, and how did any of it seem like a good idea just then? Maybe it was better to play it by ear, particularly when just the idea got Seb going.

He liked rope, so maybe he could use all rope rather than cuff. You didn't make it through military training without being able to tie a knot and he'd seen enough crime scenes and casualty visits to know how to tie things properly. He could tease, and maybe cause the sort of pain that he had to being a doctor sometimes. He stepped in the bedroom, and Seb had the "mood" lighting on already.

He was pretty sure that if Seb'd brought out. Say, a box of equipment, he might’ve been intimidated. But there was good lube on the table, and Seb sitting on the edge of the bed with a few good lengths of smooth rope and a leather belt on his lap. Already completely undressed, though pajama pants and a t-shirt wasn't really a hardship; just sitting there with his funny sunburn lines and a grin. "Hi."

John nearly snorted. "You're like a kid at Christmas," he said picking up on of the lengths of rope. "Lie back on the bed.” Spread-eagle was pretty classic, he'd go with that.

"I dunno, there's no wrapping paper being whipped around like a weapon." Seb's nephew had an arm on him when he got to throwing things, even koosh balls.

He lay back, twisting a little, relaxed and watching John. Maybe there was someplace to go, blindfold him with a necktie or something. That might make up in anticipation what he lacked in edginess, and counteract self consciousness. He fetched one out. "Don't take this off," he warned slipping it around his head and knotting it tight. Then he worked on attaching the ropes to bed - easier said than done. 

It did take some of the self-consciousness away, even if Seb unhelpfully folded his hands behind his head while he waited, the perfect posture of relaxation that John was supposed to undo. "I can hear you fretting, you know."

"I want you to enjoy it." John hadn't realized how much Seb had wanted it, put his needs down to be with him. That… unbalanced him. "Now I see why people get rings on the undersides of bed."

"I could pop 'round to the hardware store tomorrow. I need the d-rings for rigging in the warehouse, anyway." He couldn't see his eyes, but he could watch Seb's mouth curve around the words, could pick up the faint tension of anticipation. It didn't help that Seb was already hard, cock jutting up eagerly. Not that he ever actually had trouble getting it up at the drop of a hat.

He attached all the ropes to the corners and he took Seb's right hand and tied his wrist out tight, remembering how to make hit tight, but not reliant on one strand so it cut in. He stifled a laugh when the moment he pulled it tight, Seb's cock twitched. He moved to the other hand and pulled that one out too and he did it again. "That's practically pavlovian."

"I know." His face was starting to flush, but the words sounded nothing at all like shame. "Feels really fantastic." Just from having his wrists pinned to the bed with rope.

He was a little rougher pulling out the ankles and affixing them, spread wide, everything exposed. "Test them for me," he instructed as he stood back, looking at what he had done.

Seb was still for a moment, and then gave a vicious yank with his right arm, before jerking hard on the left side. John watched his knots go tighter, which was better than them falling to shit. His thighs tensed, and while both legs held through the test, there was a bit of an ominous creak where he'd tied the rope off to the frame. "That's impressive."

"Yes, I can tie knots," John deadpanned. "Although I seem to have caught myself a prize with them." He shifted onto the bed, deliberately tracing his fingers over every exposed area of flesh.

There was a lot of it, and it was nice to explore, to take his time. There was something to be said for quick and dirty in the shower or in a conex, and there was something to be said, too, for a leisurely exploration. Particularly when every touch of his fingers to Seb's sunburnt skin set off a reaction in the muscles, a tightening.

The sunburn would be sore and maybe that would be enough. But John was interested in feeling his way and thinking of things he could do that would give Seb what he needed and desired so clearly. After the exploration, he turned to his nipples and took one and pulled it slowly to watch it react. Then he did the other one, and then he repeated it, squeezing tighter and tighter with each repetition, building the endorphins first before the pain.

Making sure they were sensitive, until Seb's mouth was a little slack, and his exhalations a little unsteady. It felt like something John could do every once in a while, pretty easily. He didn't have to try to tackle Seb down to the ground with fists flying, and win, to 'take him down a notch', though the leather belt that John'd let fall to the ground had been probably hopefully provided. 

He spared a moment to think as he licked the swollen nipples and then got up, getting another thin tie, which he pulled tight around Seb's balls and cock in a vague approximate version of an ad hoc cock ring. Best use of horrible Christmas gifts from Harry he’d ever managed. "There...you're looking altogether too ready." Then he bit down on one nipple with reasonable force.

Just enough for skin to compress, for Seb to give a startled huff, yanking at the ropes. "Oh god." That was a very upward pitched, excited sort of oh god.

He did it again on the other side, knowing when to stop from causing actual damage. "You like that," he murmured, shifting up to kiss him again and then breaking off. He could do this to his cock and balls. That might be intense enough.

"Uhhuh." He swallowed, left hand fidgeting, twisting against the ropes. "I, uh. Please..." It was a good sounding ‘please’, paired with a faint twist of his hips.

"I did promise you something intense," he replied. "I think I can do more than this." He shifted downwards, using the same sort of techniques. Squeezing his balls, sucking on them, squeezing again. Scrape of teeth on his cock. A long suck, teeth tugging at the loose sack of skin.

More teeth, just the suggestions, pressure hard enough to mark but to not draw blood. The second scrape of teeth against Seb's cock garnered John an interesting noise, a low, broken-sounding sort of groan. His thigh twitched. John didn't really even need lube just then to rub a thumb against the head of Seb's cock, because the pre-cum was slick enough for a long moment's pressure.

It really was probably less rough than things they had done before -- both of them liked to just test their strength a little in sex and it was enough for the odd bruise and at least he had the excuse of the cane to explain walking funny. He worked on him a little more there, and then shifted to re-attack the now swollen nipples, a kiss here, and a nip there.

But it was controlled, and maybe that was the point. He had Seb all wrapped up, and the other man couldn't do anything to him in turn. And Seb was always doing *something*, hands moving anxiously, touching, clutching, leaving prints on John. Rubbing his own jaw, clutching at mugs and pens and knives, always moving, restless. Now his hands were pinned to the bed, and he was clearly struggling.

John smiled and drifted back to caressing and gentling him for a while, and kissed him until he could feel that quivering settle. And then he moved back to his cock, this time getting some lube on his fingers to do a stealth fingering of Seb's ass at the same time. Not that it was really very stealth, given the way Seb's asshole clenched around his fingers tightly the moment he slipped two fingers in. "Uhn, god, please do something." Like put a gag in his mouth.

Maybe there was a use for that belt after all. It wouldn't stifle much but it would give him the impression of restraint. He picked up the belt and slipped it between Seb’s lips and belted it tight. "Chew on that Seb, I'm not done yet." And he went back to what he was doing.

Hell, the belt all by itself seemed to have an effect, and he heard a pleased mumbled noise around it. So it was pain, but there was a psychological factor. Something for John to chew on, while Seb bit on the belt. He could probably get the man a couple of punker leather wrist cuffs, and give him all day satisfaction. It didn't have to be tazers and sedatives to be good.

He ran his nails up along Seb's side.

John fell into the sort of intense focus on the body he usually experienced doing surgery. It was curiously satisfying to know what he was doing was really giving him pleasure. He started fucking Seb with his fingers again, moving just a little fast on stretching so it would ache.

Everything he did made Seb move, drew him out a little. And slowly, slowly, John started to see tension fade. Started to see Seb relax, felt muscles go loose, even if they were quivering in tension trying to move. It was a different type of tension. He managed to buck his hips hard, so John pulled his fingers back.

"Getting a little desperate there?" he murmured. He glanced at the clock and realized he had been teasing Seb for a surprisingly long time. Time to step it up a gear. Condom, lube and he was ready to move in.

"Mmnh." He managed another jerk of motion, though it gained him nothing at all. The necktie around his erection and balls looked nicer than John had ever managed to make it look tucked into a shirt. Desperation was nice on Seb.

His muscles strained, looking all the more prominent; his skin was flushed. John felt the rush of pride and satisfaction that he had done this. He pushed into Seb hard, knowing it was cause some pain to start with, but that it was no worse than some of the medical exams he had to inflict on people. And then he started to move, wanting to make him desperate before he released him.

He could take his time after the blowjob in the shower. He could really just work him over, fuck him slow and steady and without any mind to the best way to get there fastest, because it was the roughness, and the lack of control that Seb was getting off of.

Maybe he had been all along, and that the rest of it had been Moriarty twisting things, feeding a spark of interest with the fuel of his own desires. He fucked Seb long and slowly to increasing muffle noises, his hands gripping so once he was stretched enough he could really pound into him. As he reached the final stages he paused balls deep and pulled off the blindfold, wanting to see Seb’s eyes.

Pupils completely blown, a little disoriented, and then his eyes locked on John's, fixed there as he arched harder into John's thrusts. He pulled at the ropes around his wrists, fingers sliding up along the ropes to clutch at them. "Uhgn! Mhn." He just needed to get the necktie off of him.

John took pity on him eventually, slipping it free, and deciding to rely on the friction between them to make him come. He thrust into him repeatedly, reaching for his own second climax of the night.

The press and grind was enough, felt like, because Seb was clutching around him, jerking the ropes, trying to get more, more, but only getting what John was giving him. He kept moving a little, even when John had gone still, and then he relaxed back against the mattress. "Mmn."

He came to a shuddering halt, and took a moment to kiss Seb while he was fucked out and sated before carefully withdrawing, removing the belt gag, then untying the various ropes and wiping Seb clean. Then he practically crawled over him to flop in a heap.

Seb shifted, slowly curling into John to wrap him close. No words, just kisses, slow and lazy, lingering while Seb caught his breath. It felt good, just luxuriating in the comedown. "Thanks."

"Was it okay?" He didn't usually ask but it was new to him. There wasn’t really any telling

"Bloody excellent." Seb exhaled a little shakily, hugging John tight. "Feels like a huge relief."

He smiled. "Well thank god for that," he said and enjoyed the closeness of having Seb in his bed. It hadn't been the end of the world after all. Context for certain actions had made all the difference and he could deal with that. He could handle a little light kink in the bedroom as long as it was giving Seb something he needed. Might actually take down some of Seb’s tendency to get into fights, but John wasn’t sure. 

Sex didn’t cure anything, after all, but it did feel very, very good. 

“Bugger, now I’m cold.” Seb huddled in close to John for a moment, before he shifted, pulling sheets out from where they were tucked in, and helping John pull them loose so they could settle comfortably under them.


End file.
